


Only Honor Gives Duty Meaning

by xenzen



Series: Lonely Hearts (the Smallest Gifts) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Bureaucracy, Conspiracy, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Investigations, Mystery, Prostitution, Slavery, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 191,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenzen/pseuds/xenzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rescued after six months spent as a prisoner in the silverite mine by the very man who had put him there, Varel is given an unenviable duty: keeping the arling of Amaranthine together after the death of Arl Howe.</p>
<p>Unsavory elements have crept in to fill the void left by the absence of a liege lord, and there are dark rumors and reports of darkspawn sightings in the remote areas of Amaranthine. With all of the burden and little of the authority he needs to govern the arling, he must do what he can if there is to be anything left for the Grey Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel is dragged up out of a mine.

**Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon**

It took a few moments for the prisoner to realize there was a commotion at the distant entrance of the mine. His lead-heavy arms continued to swing the pick into the rock before he finally noticed the disused voices of his fellow prisoner-miners raised in question. Usually they were all too tired to talk beyond grunts, and the guards discouraged those energetic enough to attempt conversation with strategic applications of the flat sides of their swords.

There was no one stopping them now; the guards had left their posts, drawn by the shouting, but since the prisoners were still chained together, their legs shackled, none of them could take any further advantage of this unprecedented breach of discipline.

He straightened as much as he could in the cramped confines of the tunnel, feeling the aches in his back, shoulders, arms and legs, which had only been held at bay by numb exhaustion and the tedium of the labor. Comprehension returned slowly, his wits drifting back like leaves floating by on a lazy river current.

"Varel! Where are you?" a familiar voice called. "Come out!"

Through the fog of weariness, it took a heartbeat or ten to remember his own name, much less that of the one calling him, before a memory surfaced. "Lowan?" Varel said, or rather, croaked. He licked his cracked, dry lips and peered at the bright dot of the mine entrance.

Next to Varel, one of several political prisoners Arl Howe had forced to labor here said in a thin voice, "Do you know him?"

The one who had been picked that day to bring the ore they mined to a waiting cart stepped close and urged, "Go and see what is happening. Maybe... maybe we'll all be freed." This suggestion raised a flurry of whispers amongst the others.

"And how do you know it is not a summons for my execution?" Varel muttered.

Still, even that might be better than being trapped underground for much longer, where his memories of the sun, the stars, and the sea were faint and growing fainter. The salty smell of the ocean, the fishy odors of rotting vegetation on the shore, the pounding of surf on the cliffs: those, too, were worn thin.

All work had stopped since the disturbance, and the guards had not returned to force them back to it. Since he was chained together in a line with the other prisoners, they all had to shuffle out of the narrow tunnel in order to allow him to answer the summons. Since every one of them was as starved for fresh air and sunlight as he was, they were not too loathe to do so.

There were five men ahead of Varel, and since the tunnel was only just wide enough for their bodies, with barely enough room to swing their picks, he could see little but the back of the man in front of him. The only indications they were moving in the right direction were the increasing slope, a gradual lightening of the gloom, and a strengthening draft that brought tantalizing scents of the surface world.

Finally he reached the mine opening, and stood there, blinking in the blessed sunlight as someone took his pick away, and straightened up to his full height under the sky for the first time since he had been forced into the mine. The bones of his spine creaked and cracked as he did so, and pinpricks of pain marched all up and down his back. He did not close his eyes, even when they watered, and breathed in air that was clean and crisp compared to the musty stink of unwashed and sweaty bodies below.

Maker's breath, the colors! They were so vibrant and riotous, the dizzying combination struck almost like a blow to Varel's senses. He stared at the trees, the grass, the sky, Lowan's escort, their horses, the nearby Tevinter ruin, and was almost overwhelmed by the infinite variety of hues and textures and shapes after seeing nothing but gray rocks, gray dirt, gray ore for... how long had it been? He actually did not know. Judging from the changing colors of the trees, it must be near to Harvestmere now, perhaps the end of Kingsway, and he had been punished and imprisoned just after Summerday. Five, six months, at least. It seemed like forever.

He only moved when the prisoner behind him poked him into motion, but his eyes continued to drink in the sun-drenched surroundings, and he filled his lungs with the crisp autumn air of the Wending Wood. As if in a dream he shuffled where he was directed, leaving room for the rest of the prisoners, and he was so preoccupied he almost did not notice the captain walking up to him.

"You, get the others free of these blasted chains," Lowan was saying to the mine guards gathered around him. "And you, fetch me a chisel and hammer - I know you must keep some tools around here. Stand still, Varel, we'll have you out of those soon."

"What is happening?" Varel said as he watched the other man take the tools and crouch down to strike the nails holding the shackles closed around his ankles. Though he could feel the hammer blows and hear the sounds of metal being struck, nothing seemed real. "Am I to be hanged, after all?" Numb as he was, the prospect was not as frightening as it should be.

Lowan stood, handed off the tools, and tossed the filth-covered chains away. "I don't know, but I received a message from Queen Anora to free all of Arl Howe's prisoners and to recall all of his troops not performing any essential duties to the Vigil."

Varel stared at the other man, then glanced aside as the last of the miners stumbled out, blinking in the sun, to be helped by the soldiers out of their bindings; shaggy and gaunt, like bears woken from their winter sleep, they looked as stunned and confused as he felt. "Were you not stationed in Highever? I think I recall you telling me..." It was like something remembered from a fever dream.

"That fool Chase got himself killed - the how and the why of it is muddled, not that I care - and I was next in seniority. It seems I'm in charge now." Lowan grimaced; perhaps he realized the magnitude of his new responsibilities - or thinking of the fate that had befallen his predecessor.

It took a moment to dredge up the name; Varel's brow furrowed as he thought back. Chase had been one of Arl Howe's favorites, a cruel man who did his lord's bidding without question, no matter how questionable - especially if it was questionable.

He was not used to talking so much; the scant water and food distributed in the morning had been a long time ago. Licking his chapped lips and trying to swallow in his dry throat, Varel said, "Is there any water? Anything to eat?"

"Of course - I should've realized the guards would keep any prisoners half starving. I'll get you something after you clean up first. But you must hurry."

Lowan pointed him to a barrel that collected rainwater for the mine personnel's use, and spoke to the foreman while Varel stripped out of his stinking rags, and poured bucket after bucket of clean water over himself. It was so cold it left him gasping and made his teeth chatter, but he did not stop until the worst of the grime was washed away in his first bath in months.

"I'm afraid you'll have to eat in the saddle," Lowan said as he handed Varel a spare tunic and leggings he had confiscated from some luckless guard's belongings. "I know you hate riding, but I want to return to the Vigil by sundown."

"But what about the other prisoners?" Varel asked, glancing at the men now milling about in confusion at the mine entrance. They had been given their things back, what little they had before they had been forced to labor below.

Lowan shrugged. "They're free to go, as long as they don't make trouble. Leave that," he called to the mine guards, who were moving to a pile of barrels stacked inside the mine entrance.

"But it's our food and ale, ser," one of them said.

"We won't be able to shift that lot without a wagon, so the prisoners or miners can have them, for all I care. I brought provisions enough to get us to the Vigil, though not if we waste any time here." Lowan's sharp tone brooked no further argument, and it snapped the mine guards into quick obedience.

At the captain's hand signal, a sergeant from his escort took charge, and soon the confused milling of both prisoners and guards was transformed into an organized withdrawal.

"You're truly leaving the mines completely unprotected?" Varel said.

"Can't be helped - orders are orders. The foreman doesn't like it one bit, of course, but I have no choice in the matter." There seemed to be much weightier things on the captain's mind than the displeasure of miners.

"The arl won't like it," Varel said, and was astonished when Lowan's only response to the warning was a distracted grunt. Despite his exhaustion, the other man's atypical response spurred his sluggish thoughts into reluctant motion.

Varel was hustled to a mount being held by one of Lowan's escort, and saw spares being given to the mine guards; it was clear the captain had anticipated the need. More were attaching bundles to a few packhorses, which he realized were the mine guards' belongings.

Feeling as bewildered as a man set adrift in the sea, Varel put a foot onto the linked hands of a soldier who boosted him up onto a bay gelding, who also helped to adjust the stirrups. He did not have proper boots - none of the prisoners did - but hopefully the rags he had bound about his feet would last the trip. Finished with her work, she handed a packet up to him before turning to other duties. He unwrapped it to find a small loaf of hard journey bread and cheese, a feast compared to the slice of dark, rock-hard horsebread served once a day in the mine.

As soon as everyone was mounted, Lowan led them to the road, moving from a trot to a canter. Varel, never expert at riding horses at the best of times, jounced uncomfortably in the saddle before he caught his balance. He knew he should be asking questions, but his mouth was full of the food the soldier had given him, and now he was doing his best not to wolf the humble trail rations down like a starving dog.

It was only after his belly was full that Varel wondered if the food had been given, not only to feed him, but to stop his mouth. Legging his horse with clumsy expertise up to the head of the column, where the captain was in the lead, he asked, "Why are you really here, Lowan? You were supposed to be garrisoning Highever, were you not?"

Lowan glanced back and around to see if anyone else was in earshot, and seemed to relax, willing enough to talk now. "A royal command, like I told you, signed by Queen Anora herself, summoning me from Highever. I only took enough for an escort; the rest of my troops are still there."

"Was the summons that urgent?"

"Yes, but we've also been plagued with troubles of one sort or another - I suspect deliberate sabotage in many cases - since we took Highever. Mysterious fires, soldiers lured into the forest disappearing without a trace, animals run off in the night, deliberate obstruction when I tried to investigate. I wish my troops were half so organized! So I had to leave most of them behind just to keep order. I'm relieved to get away, to be honest."

Varel could not muster much sympathy. "I am not surprised. By all reports, the Couslands were well liked."

Lowan glowered at him, and said, "I'm expecting one of Queen Anora's representatives to show up in a few days at the Vigil. I'll get more instructions."

Varel frowned as he uncapped the flask of ale the captain had given him. "But not from Arl Howe? Not even a note? That is... out of character." He was still too much in the habit of discretion to criticize the man in public.

The other man snorted. "Arl Howe would never let anyone else command his own people, not even the queen." He did not speak for a moment. "I'm not sure what to think, when there's been no word from him since the regent made him teyrn of Highever and arl of Denerim -"

Varel stared, too distracted by the other man's words to appreciate the brilliant colors of the Wending Wood. " _What?_ What regent? What in the name of the Maker has been happening in Denerim?"

"Oh, that's right, you wouldn't have heard the news." Lowan's already grim face hardened. "They say King Cailan is dead, killed by the darkspawn at Ostagar, and Teyrn Loghain declared himself regent for Queen Anora."

"Andraste wept," Varel breathed, stunned by the news, and then was baffled by it. Queen Anora had reached her majority; she was no child who needed a regent. What was Teyrn Loghain playing at? He set that aside for the moment and said, "What... what was the king doing at Ostagar? There is naught but an old Tevinter Imperial fortress there."

Lowan told the rest, and each piece of news seemed to knock Varel further and further off balance: the Grey Wardens had asked the king to gather an army to stop the darkspawn horde forming in the Korcari Wilds, only for them all to be overrun and routed; the Grey Wardens had been blamed for the king's death, and, by order of the regent, were to be hunted down for their treachery. Arl Howe had been supporting Teyrn Loghain during these crises, and had been given the teyrnir of Highever as well as the arling of Denerim as rewards for his service.

Rewards for the arl's treachery, more like, Varel thought with a dark scowl. One man simply did not accumulate that many titles in such a short amount of time through merit and honorable deeds. He wondered what Loghain could have been thinking, giving such a dangerous concentration of power into the hands of a man as unscrupulous as the arl.

"But there's been no word at all for a fortnight and more," Lowan said, when he had finished. "And you know how Arl Howe is when he's away in Denerim - always sending a courier once every two or three days for news and to pass along instructions. Like he doesn't trust us to do what needs to be done." His jaw worked, and he spat to one side.

"Perhaps he is simply too busy with his new estates to deal with his own arling's business. A new teyrnir and another arling is a great deal for one man to assimilate at once." Varel's voice sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Maybe," the captain said, but he sounded dubious.

Varel gathered up his scattered wits as he plugged the flask and handed it back to the captain. "All right, Lowan, tell me what I'm really doing here. You know I was to be hanged once Arl Howe returned."

Lowan averted his eyes, staring straight ahead. "You may not consider me a friend anymore, Varel, but you should know better than to think I'm sending you to your death." He squared his shoulders and turned to look Varel in the eye as best he could. "I know I don't have a right to ask this, but I need your help."

Hands tightening on the reins, Varel looked away, frowning as he watched the road between his horse's ears. He did not want to remember the last time he and Lowan had spoke, did not want to remember what his friend had done to him, even though Lowan had been forced to do Arl Howe's bidding; though his mind knew that Lowan had had no choice in the matter, his heart still considered it a betrayal of their trust and friendship.

"I suppose it depends on what you think you need my help with," Varel said, breaking the silence after their horses had gone at least a mile. In the midst of armed soldiers, he felt exposed; he was weaponless, without even a dagger, even though Lowan had not had him bound nor guarded.

Lowan sighed, looking relieved; perhaps he thought Varel would start hurling accusations right then and there at him. "The queen's orders made it clear that I'm in charge of the arling, at least for now, even if there's been no news of the arl. But you know me, Varel, I'm just a soldier! What in the name of the Maker do I know about running the arling, or, or the household affairs at the Vigil? I know how to organize a fortified camp, but not much else beyond that!"

"What about Arl Howe's seneschal, Aren? Is he not at the Vigil? Or did he accompany the arl?"

At the name, Lowan spat again over the side of his horse. "That useless fool - he went to Denerim with the arl, of course. It's not as if he can flatter and toady up to Arl Howe from a distance, after all. Even if he stayed behind, he would just make a mess of things - you know and I know that the only reason he got the position was because he's related to Bann Esmerelle - some cousin or other - and agreed with everything the arl said and did, not for his ability."

"There are others -" Varel said.

Lowan interrupted him. "None as experienced as you. You were trained by Arl Howe's father's seneschal, and everyone in the Vigil and the city knows and respects you -"

"What, even after I was disgraced in front of everyone?" Varel said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Lowan winced and reddened, the thin, horizontal scar across his cheeks and nose standing out white against his skin. After a moment's silence he said, "Yes, even after that - more so now than before, whether you believe me or not. Look, Maker knows I can't force you to help me, but I need you - the arling needs you. The housekeeper has been doing her best to hold everything together, but that's not her duty - she's in over her head, and she knows it. I know it. She's a good woman, but she's been threatening to quit if I don't find someone to help her soon. I'd rather she didn't - a good housekeeper is hard to find."

Varel sighed. "And if I refuse?" he said, curious as to what the captain would do then.

"Then I'll let you go. I'll give you a bit of money, and I'll even escort you wherever you like," Lowan said in a resigned tone. "Refugees have been pouring into the north for months, to Highever and Amaranthine, but I know you have friends at the port - I'm sure you could find a berth on a ship sooner rather than later."

Lowan did not press him any further, and Varel was left to his own thoughts as they rode through the forest. After an hour, they stopped at a stream to rest and water the horses, pausing long enough for a quick meal. Though he had eaten his fill earlier, he did not refuse the strips of salted meat and journey bread a soldier passed out, though he declined the offer of a skin of watered wine for fear of what it might do to his scattered wits. He was aware of the curious glances the captain's escort gave him, and saw them talking to the mine guards; Lowan noticed, and ordered them off, keeping them all busy at various chores.

When they mounted their horses again, the soldiers seemed to take it for granted that Varel would ride alongside the captain. A little way down the road, Lowan said, "We will reach the Vigil soon, Varel, so I suggest you make your decision - I'd rather not get into any arguments with anyone who recognizes you. I left Rullens in charge, and he should be able to keep them quiet long enough for you to have a good head start. If they fear the arl's censure - and I wouldn't blame them if they did - they won't be best pleased with me if they know I released you."

"You don't seem bothered by the idea," Varel said, raising brows.

The captain had his family to think of, after all, and he had been bitter indeed at how the arl had all but threatened them to command his obedience. He suspected Lowan knew something more than he had said, something he would not divulge yet.

Lowan shrugged. "I gather there's been some sort of trouble with the queen, and there have been rumors the Grey Wardens hadn't all been wiped out at Ostagar. If that's so, I think the arl will have bigger problems to worry about than one man who's been amply punished already." He leaned towards Varel, and said in a lower voice, "There've been whispers that not all the Couslands died at Highever, and one of them is after the arl, bent on revenge. Some even say she's one of the Grey Wardens still alive. If that's true, I think my lord hasn't been sleeping all that well at night."

Varel thought that Lowan did not look to have slept well himself. "You were the one in charge of the assault on the castle - is there any truth to the rumor?"

Grimacing, Lowan muttered, "All were accounted for, but for a woman, hardly more than a girl, Teyrn Bryce's only living daughter. We never found her body, nor the Grey Warden who stayed as their guest that night. Her mabari wasn't there, either. What we did find were plenty of dead soldiers they had left in their wake. Lord Fergus had left for Ostagar already, but there's been no news of him, and I've kept an ear out. If the arl had planned something for him, I don't know of it."

Varel wondered if the captain worried about being called to account eventually for that night's treachery. Well, Lowan had been acting under orders from his liege lord, however repugnant those orders had been. But if there really was a survivor of the massacre, they might not agree.

The captain's voice broke into Varel's thoughts. "There's the boundary marker," he said, nodding towards a cairn they were approaching. "We'll be out of the forest in another hour, and onto the North Road, on our way towards the crossroads. Now's your chance to tell me where you want to go: north to the city, or east towards the Vigil?"

Taking a deep breath, Varel held it before releasing it and his answer, like an arrow from a bow; there had never really been any doubt as to what he would choose. He had not given up when Arl Howe had done his best to drive him away, and he would not give up now, when his liege lord was absent, leaving the arling and its affairs in disarray.

"To the Vigil, Captain - it sounds like there is a great deal of work for me to do." 

Lowan smiled for the first time that whole journey, and clapped Varel on the arm. "I'm glad. We'll get you outfitted - your clothes, armor, and sword were stored, and I saved what I could of your things from being tossed onto the rubbish heap."

Despite his reservations and memories, Varel was still touched by Lowan's unexpected thoughtfulness. He was about to express his gratitude when Lowan's lips twisted into the most cynical smile he had ever seen.

"Don't thank me, Varel. You'd probably still be rotting down in that mine if I didn't need you so desperately, and you might well curse me before all this is done."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel returns to Vigil's Keep and hears all the news, both good and bad. Most of it is bad.

Varel's first sight of the Vigil, as their horses began to climb the slope, lifted his heart despite the uneasiness he felt. Here he had come, a young boy fresh from his father's farm, to be educated in arms and numbers and history - among other things - to find friends, even lovers. If there were memories of pain, there were also memories of joy.

It did feel odd to pass again under the massive guard towers, this time on a horse rather than in a prison wagon, in honor rather than in disgrace. Varel looked around, seeing the stone walls, the patrolling sentries, the soldiers and servants bustling about, the main keep towering up above, with new eyes.

It was obvious Lowan had not allowed anyone to slacken in their duties, and yet... there seemed to be fewer soldiers than was safe, bushes and even trees had been allowed to grow within bow range, and business in the market stalls outside the walls seemed slow. Barrels, crates, and other assorted debris had been left to clutter both the inner and outer courtyards. Wagons, carts, and even wheelbarrows had been jammed into any space available, getting into everyone's way.

The grooms who came to take the horses greeted Varel with surprise and some apprehension, which was only to be expected. Lowan, who had already dismounted, had to put a steadying hand under Varel's arm when he stumbled down the mounting stool a horseboy had brought, unused as he was to such exercise.

Servants who recognized Varel paused to give him a nod when he called to them, but did not stay to talk. He could detect no resentment at his presence, though there was some consternation; they were no doubt anticipating Arl Howe's inevitable wrath, should their lord find him, a condemned prisoner, in their midst. They met the housekeeper on their way into the inner courtyard; she seemed startled by Lowan's choice, but looked relieved when she realized she would finally have someone to help with the work she was ill suited to.

He made use of the keep's bathhouse for a proper wash-up, letting the hot water soak away the majority of his aches and pains, and changed back into his own clothes and boots. Lowan, or perhaps the housekeeper, had saved them, and they smelled of lavender and pennyroyal from being hidden away in a storage chest. He had forgotten what clean clothes smelled and felt like on skin not encrusted with six months' worth of grime and sweat.

As his hands were none too steady, a visit to the Vigil's barber was in order. The bath, shave, and clean garments did much to restore his spirits, and for the first time in months he felt almost normal.

The captain persuaded him not to start work immediately, but suggested they meet instead in his office to tell him all the news he had missed - what Lowan knew of it, anyway.

Varel started for the tiny office he had used before, but Lowan stopped him. "Where are you going? Surely not that miserable little mousehole the arl forced you into! You should take Aren's quarters, now that the greedy little rat's away in Denerim, scrounging for whatever crumbs his lord has deigned to leave him."

"I really do not think it would be wise to so antagonize the arl..." Varel subsided into silence when he saw the other man's hesitation. Now that he finally had a chance to think about it, without being distracted by hunger and exhaustion, his presence here and the freeing of the prisoners made no sense unless one insurmountable obstacle had, somehow, been removed. His eyes met Lowan's, and saw a calm certainty in them.

Hope, sudden - and possibly premature - nonetheless began to blossom in Varel's heart. "You know something," he said, and it was not a question.

Lowan glanced around. "This is hardly a topic I want to discuss in the middle of the hall. Come." He led the way to Aren's office - if it was still his. Varel could not think of it yet as his own.

Once inside, Lowan gestured Varel to a chair, then closed the door and locked it. Varel took in the state of the office, and sighed when he saw the haphazard piles of parchments, the scrolls and books tossed every which way onto any available flat surface. Documents had been jammed into the pigeonholes lining two of the walls with little care for their contents, fragility, or importance. The servants had done what they could with the chaos, but there was still a thin layer of dust on everything.

Then his eyes were riveted to the pot of tea that had been left on a tray, which Lowan must have had brought up. Beside it was a plate of pastries, the sight of which made his stomach rumble, despite the trail rations he had wolfed down earlier.

Lowan gave him an amused look. "Help yourself. I can't imagine they served tea in the mine, and I know how you are about your tea."

Not needing to be told twice, Varel poured himself a mug of the still-hot brew, and then just stood there for a moment, savoring the delicate scent. After taking a reverent sip, he said, "Maker, there were times in that mine when I would have killed for a decent cup of tea."

"I can believe that. They still tell stories about that one time a hapless recruit got between you and a pot after you spent two days straight staring at the tax rolls. But, here, sit down, and we'll get down to business."

Once Varel was seated, one hand possessively clutching a full mug, the other gripping a pastry, Lowan wasted no time in saying, "I think the arl is dead."

Varel gasped. "The arl? Dead?" No, he could not allow himself to believe it; that bitter asp of a man had years of life in him yet. Arl Howe was poisonous enough to spite death itself.

Lowan seemed little put out by the news of the arl's possible death. "It would explain much, would it not?"

"You truly think Arl Howe is dead," Varel said again, as his mind was still reeling. "Why? What makes you think so? It must be quite compelling evidence for you to take such initiative." Especially when their liege lord discouraged forward thinking in his underlings.

The captain did not bother to beat about the bush. "I don't know if you remember, but my wife has family in Denerim," he said as he dragged out the chair from behind the desk to the table and sat. "One of her brothers, a scholar attached to the Chantry, married a palace guard a few months ago." Black humor edged his smile. "I would've invited you to the wedding, but you were in no position to accept."

Varel's attention sharpened, and he leaned forward. "I take it that means any news you get from the palace is reliable."

The other man nodded. "My brother-in-law's new wife was part of the force that went with Ser Cauthrien to the arl of Denerim's palace, and she saw our liege lord - what was left of our liege lord. It doesn't get more 'reliable' than that."

"Ser Cauthrien?" Varel repeated, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember a face. The name sounded familiar.

"She's only Teyrn Loghain's second and the commander of Maric's Shield." The captain's voice was very dry. "Trustworthy enough for you?"

Varel remembered the intense knight who always stood at the Hero of River Dane's side, which lent the news a much greater weight of credence than he had been willing to credit. "Did she say what happened to him? Was it some accident or did someone kill him?" He could not see how anyone could have gotten close enough; the arl traveled everywhere with bodyguards outside of Vigil's Keep.

Lowan shook his head. "That part's very confused - and still is. She was outside guarding one of the entrances, not inside with Ser Cauthrien's squad. Whoever had done the deed was still there, and apparently put up a fight so fierce that it sounded like all the demons in the Fade broke loose when Ser Cauthrien tried to arrest them. After that, well, I don't think we can blame her if she kept her distance until after it was all over."

"Surely someone must have seen _something_ -" Varel said, still unwilling to believe Arl Howe, who had expended every effort to ruin, not only his life, but the lives of anyone who had ever crossed his will, was truly no more.

The captain spread his hands. "Oh, yes, plenty of people saw _something_. So many somethings that they all contradict each other from one moment to the next. I've managed to piece together the few points everyone seems to agree on: an army of giant spiders, demon dogs, and nightmare shadows invaded the arl of Denerim's palace, killed Arl Howe and his guards, and slipped away like ghosts just when Ser Cauthrien cornered them."

"It sounds like something out of a deranged man's fever dream." Varel could only shake his head in wonder as he took an absent bite of his food. "Have you received any further news?"

Lowan shook his head. "No, probably because she's with the rest of the army, preparing for war. Now that that's out of the way, let me tell you the rest of what I know."

Varel was stunned, shocked, and appalled by turns, from Arl Howe's neglect of his own arling, the incipient civil war, to the political disaster King Cailan's death had left behind. More cups of tea were poured and pastries were consumed as he listened. Refugees from southern Ferelden had been streaming north in ever-increasing numbers to Amaranthine and the rest of the Coastlands, and they would have to take thought as to what to do with them.

"You certainly have your work cut out for you," Lowan said with a wry grin, when he had finished. "You may be sorry I ever freed you from the mine and gave you your job back."

Varel snorted. "Small chance of that."

"Even so..." Lowan looked at the empty fireplace, which was not needed yet, then back. "Arl Howe's negligence has left this land, if not in shambles, then badly unsettled, and the rumors of his downfall, the darkspawn, and the king's death aren't going to help matters.

The arbiters have not come to judge cases; poachers and bandits grow bolder with each passing day. The bann's sheriff is more concerned with filling his money pouch than dispensing justice. What with his frequent absences and leaving that incompetent fool in charge, some of the nobles and not a few of the freeholders were already getting restless. Now... now I don't know what they'll do."

"Hm, but at least he is also no longer here to look over our shoulders every moment." _And insult, belittle, interrupt and second guess us_ , Varel did not say. Lowan had not been without experience in his own dealings with Arl Howe, after all. "Without his interference, small problems will not blow up into major crises, and potential disasters will not be dismissed as unimportant trifles."

Lowan relaxed a little. "There is that."

That evening Varel ate supper with Lowan in the dining hall, ignoring the uneasy glances of the servants and soldiers. That was simple enough to do, occupied as he was with the abundance, to his eyes, of his meal: hot toasted bread, roast chicken, mushrooms and barley stew, washed down with a tankard of ale - a far cry from the one slice of stale horsebread and water allotted to each prisoner.

The exertions of the ride, the grinding daily labor in the mine, and the sudden change soon had him nodding over the last of the ale, and he had to be nudged back to wakefulness by a grinning Lowan before his face ended up in his bowl.

"I wanted to chat with you a bit more after supper, but I can see you're too tired to appreciate my fine wit," Lowan said.

"You have no wit, fine or otherwise, for me to appreciate in the first place, even if I weren't tired."

"Ouch!" Lowan chuckled; the soldiers who had overheard the exchange grinned. "Well, your tongue has certainly lost none of its sharpness."

Varel pitched his voice low, for the captain's ears only. "All jesting aside, where am I to sleep?"

"You could take Aren's quarters -"

"No," Varel said, interrupting Lowan. "Until everyone hears official news of the arl's fate, I think I had better be circumspect. I am grateful you freed me, but what you did was most irregular."

Lowan looked unhappy, but did not argue with the sentiment. "Very well, though I suspect the queen's representative will bring that word soon. I suppose it truly would be easiest on everyone if you keep your head down. Will your old pallet in the servants' quarters do?"

Varel yawned again. "Right now I would be content with a spot in front of the fireplace."

As the servants began to clear the tables, the captain rose and looked around the busy hall; Varel finished his ale and stood. "I think we can do better than that. I'll go have a word with the housekeeper."

They found the housekeeper near the door to the kitchen, overseeing the flow of platters, both empty and full, as one shift of servants and soldiers finished, and another came to take their place. She was well able to carry on a conversation with them while attending to her task, snatching a dish away from a boy with dirty hands and sending him off with a cuff to the ear to wash properly first.

She had, it turned out, already anticipated the need, and had arranged everything with her usual efficiency hours ago. "'Tain't right, but ye can sleep in t' same place ye did after t' arl kicked ye down. I already brung up another change of clothes for ye, but if ye want t' rest of yer things back, I'll send some strappin' lad ta fetch 'em."

"That won't be necessary. At least, not yet. Thank you, Clara," Varel said with a bow.

The courtly gesture seemed to fluster her; she snapped her towel at him, which amused Lowan no end. "Save that for t' fine noble ladies."

"I need to talk to my second and then make the rounds of the sentry posts, so good night, Varel," Lowan said. He nodded to the housekeeper and left with the soldiers going out on watch.

After bidding Clara good night, Varel made his way to the servants' quarters, a long, dark room that shared a wall and a hearth with the kitchens. Bunk beds lined the sides, stacked three high, right up to the low ceiling, though the ones in the middle only had two levels.

This was where he had been banished when the arl had demoted him; if Arl Howe had held his hounds and horses in less esteem, Varel might well have been forced to sleep in the stables or the kennels instead. Varel was glad he had cultivated good working relationships with the servants in all the years he had worked at the Vigil, so that they protected him as best they could, rather than making his life miserable, in all the little ways resentful servants could.

There were people already inside, talking in low voices as they prepared for sleep; conversations died at his entrance, then started up again in hesitant whispers when he nodded to them on his way to the end furthest from the fireplace, where those lowest in the servants' hierarchy were relegated. Uncertain as to his status, especially when he showed no interest in displacing anyone, they left him well alone, which suited him just fine. As the housekeeper had promised, another set of his clothes had been left in a neat pile on his pallet.

Perhaps it was sleeping on his own pallet again, surrounded by familiar scents and sounds, but the nightmares that had been held at bay by bone-deep exhaustion in the mine returned to plague him. His dreams of the cramped, dark passages of the mine rippled and changed to a cell in the dungeon, but he was not alone.

_"Varel, you self-righteous fool," Lowan said, half angry, half fearful as he paced back and forth outside the cell. "I warned you time and time again, but still you persist in poking your nose into the arl's private affairs!"_

_"I fail to see how saving Arl Howe's own freeholders - freeholders he is sworn to protect! - from outright murder, rash! You_ know _what he's doing is wrong, Lowan! How can you lend yourself to these atrocities?"_

_"I have a wife and two children, Andraste burn your eyes! I can't afford to do anything but follow orders!"_

_"How can you say that? Those freeholders have families, too, no different from yours!"_

_"I had no choice!" Lowan cried, his voice rising. He looked away and muttered, "The arl wanted to flog you himself, but he's too busy with his new duties to bother with you. He intends to watch, however, to make sure you get proper punishment. I told him I would do it myself."_

_"How lucky for me." Varel spat._

_"You blasted well should be! If the arl had his way, he'd have you whipped so badly you'd be crippled for life - or dead! At least I'll be careful not to do too much damage. That's... that's about the most I can do to help you."_

Varel woke before the dream progressed any further, but weariness, the sudden changes in his life, and the events of the day overwhelmed him, and he slept once more, and this time his sleep was undisturbed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel hears of the death of Arl Howe, and Ser Cauthrien points her finger at him, appointing - or reappointing - him as seneschal of the Vigil.

The next day, after another bath and a simple breakfast of hot, fresh bread, Varel felt much more like himself, his mind clear and awake, as if his time in the mine had been a long slumber. Sleeping on a pallet in a warm place, not on the cold, bare ground, certainly helped.

It took several days to organize to his satisfaction the documents in the pigeonholes in Aren's - his - office, clear away books and scrolls his predecessor had not returned to the library, and read through all the correspondence that had piled up in the arl's absence. He pored over the estate's accounts, spending hours over ledgers with a counting board in one hand and a quill in the other.

Five days after being liberated from the mine, Varel heard a horn call in the distance, which was answered by the Vigil's sentry.

While Varel wondered whether he should go and meet the visitors or continue to work, there was a knock on the open door, and Lowan stuck his head in. "That would be the queen's representative, come to tell give us her orders, and probably full of news from the capital. Come with me and meet them."

Varel stood beside Lowan in the outer courtyard, awaiting the arrival of the queen's delegation. The elevation of the Vigil allowed him to spot the bright group of riders as they exited the Wending Wood; a smaller, darker line pacing alongside them resolved itself into a disciplined column of mabari.

It was a clear, beautiful autumn day, with a hint of chill in the air presaging the coming of winter, which made it possible for him to see a pennant in the royal colors even at this distance. When the wind snapped it out, he saw the mabari heraldry on it. As they began to climb the slope, he realized the horseman in the lead was actually a familiar-looking woman, who bore the insignia of Maric's Shield on her armor.

By the time the horses clattered into the courtyard, Varel thought he recognized her. "Ser Cauthrien," he said, saluting her; beside him, Lowan did the same. "Welcome to Vigil's Keep."

"I am Lowan, captain of the guard," Lowan said.

She nodded to them and dismounted without assistance, her soldiers following suit; their horses were taken by grooms Varel had standing by, while their mabari were led to the kennels. Behind them were packhorses, not spare mounts, weighed down with enough supplies for a long march. Varel was wondering why when the knight stepped forward, interrupting his thoughts.

Cauthrien's gaze was sharp and intense as she looked him up and down. "I think I know you... Varel, isn't it? I have seen you before, on my Lord Loghain's business." A shadow crossed her face at the mention of the teyrn's name, but it was gone so swiftly Varel thought he might have imagined it.

"Yes, ser." Varel spoke quickly, in the hopes that she would not ask him more. "There are refreshments ready for you and your soldiers, and if you would like to rest first after your journey, I have rooms prepared."

Cauthrien nodded. "My soldiers and I would appreciate the food, but I have no time to rest. I have urgent news to tell you in private, and orders from Queen Anora I must convey."

"In that case, perhaps we should first meet in my office." Varel waved a hand at the keep.

The knight dismissed all but two of her escort, while the rest followed Lowan's second to the barracks; the two followed them into the keep and stood guard outside Varel's office. While Varel arranged chairs in front of the fireplace for her and Lowan, two servants appeared at the door. One bore a tray of light pastries and a steaming teapot, along with three mugs; she poured the tea, then bowed and left. The other servant put down a basin of hot water and a towel on the table.

There was no weapon rack in Varel's office, so Cauthrien leaned her greatsword against a wall before washing her hands and face at the basin. After the servant left with the dirty water, Lowan closed and secured the door. She took a sip from the mug of hot tea Varel handed to her, and said without preamble, "Your lord, Arl Howe, is dead, and posthumously convicted of high treason."

Varel managed to control his expression, but Lowan's blankness was not as practiced as Varel's own. "We suspected, when no courier came after so many days, though we knew nothing of any charges of treason," the captain said when Cauthrien raised an eyebrow in unspoken question. He did not mention his new sister-in-law.

Cauthrien nodded. "I see. Well, the news of his death is already being announced by the town criers in Denerim, and the ones in Amaranthine and Highever will no doubt soon be doing the same."

"Who did the deed, if I might ask?" Varel said. _So that I can thank him someday and call blessings down upon his head._

Cauthrien's lips thinned. "One of the two Grey Wardens who survived the battle at Ostagar were involved - Elethea Cousland," she said, pausing when she saw how Lowan had paled at the name. "And some others."

"How did he die?" Lowan said. Varel wondered if he asked out of morbid curiosity, or morbid speculation on his own possible fate.

"Blood loss, I assume," Cauthrien said in a dispassionate voice. "He was stabbed many, many times, though his face was not mutilated. As if she wanted to be sure his body could be identified."

Considering the full penalty for high treason was to be dragged to the gallows, hanged until nearly dead, disemboweled, emasculated, and then hacked into quarters, in that order, the arl had, perhaps, gotten off easy.

"Despite my - our best efforts, they evaded capture." The knight scowled. "Not that it matters, I suppose. The arl was found guilty of conspiracy and treachery, in addition to some lesser, but no less heinous, crimes, and though he was already dead, the queen still had him beheaded. His head presently adorns a pike in front of the palace gates. In light of the evidence against him, some of it provided by the queen herself, the Grey Wardens were given a full pardon."

She rummaged in her belt pouch, oblivious to their stunned - and relieved - reactions, and took out a sealed message tube. "Speaking of Queen Anora, I have here her orders for you."

Varel glanced at the captain; Lowan raised a brow, but took the tube and broke the wax seal on it. Taking out the rolled parchment inside, he scanned down the lines, and frowned; he passed the note to Varel.

The message was short and to the point; the long, flowery phrases usual in a royal document were absent, and the wording was so blunt it was harsh. But there was the seal, two mabari rampant on a shield, so it was no forgery.

Varel looked up and said, "These orders... you will strip the arling bare of much of its defenders."

Cauthrien's face settled into grim lines. "It can't be helped - I must raise enough troops from _somewhere_ to defend Denerim, and yours are the closest. The rest of the army is marching to Redcliffe." Her tone suggested she wished she was with them.

"Why Redcliffe?" Varel said. "It is a long way from Denerim."

"It is the best staging area closest to the ruins of Ostagar, where the Grey Wardens think the archdemon will emerge." The knight's expression was unreadable. "Since the darkspawn first gathered there, and still maintain a vast presence in the southwest even as they continue to move north, I have no reason to believe they are wrong."

"Well, at least our own troops won't be wandering that far," Lowan said.

Cauthrien nodded. "Amaranthine is the nearest, and Arl Howe never brought his levies to Ostagar. I will need them, and also the garrison left at Highever. I also have the authority to conscript men and women from the nobles' guard retinues, and the city and town militias."

"That will make it hard for those left behind to keep order, and with the refugees still pouring in -" Lowan said, but the knight interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

"You'll have more important things to worry about than smugglers and brigands if the darkspawn break through Denerim. If the capital falls, that will leave the whole of the Coastlands open to invasion."

"So it is a true Blight then, not just an unusually large gathering of darkspawn," Lowan said, looking worried. As well he should; darkspawn were outside of his experience.

"So the Grey Wardens say," Cauthrien said, her tone implying either that she did not quite trust them, or that she disliked them. "But they've convinced the Landsmeet, and Queen Anora, and they have their full support." She took a pastry for the first time during their meeting, and bit into the flaky crust as if she had a grudge against it.

Varel waited for the knight to finish her first bite, then said, "Who will be commanding Amaranthine's levies? Will it be you, ser?"

Cauthrien shook her head, and took a sip of her tea before she spoke. "I will only be here long enough to order the raising of the levies, given that your arl is dead. Queen Anora thought my presence would be required to motivate any nobles who might dig in their heels in the absence of their liege-lord. Captain Lowan is more suited to lead them, and once this task is done, my own duties lie elsewhere."

Varel exchanged a look with Lowan before meeting the knight's eyes. "But if Captain Lowan leads the levies, who will be in charge of the arling?"

"It must be you," Cauthrien said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "You will take charge of the arling in trust for whoever Queen Anora will decide to appoint. And before you ask, no, I don't know whom she will pick, or even who the suitable candidates are. I am not privy to that information."

"But, but I -" Varel began, but the knight held up her hand.

"I don't know why you did not accompany your arl to Denerim, or why you look starved and beaten for someone in such a position, and I don't really care. I have Crown authority to appoint someone for the task, and it might as well be you." She raised her hand and pointed her finger at Varel, and gave him an ironic look. "Congratulations, _Seneschal_. In the absence of a liege-lord, Queen Anora will expect regular reports, preferably once a fortnight."

Lowan was no help when Varel looked to him for support. "It's what I brought you out here for. Well, maybe not for quite this exact situation, though I should've foreseen it, perhaps. You're certainly better suited to it than I am."

Before Varel could protest - not that it was likely to do him any good - Cauthrien said with an air of finality, "Good, that's settled." She glanced at the light falling through an arrow slit. "Time passes, and we still need to discuss how best to gather troops from the city and the estates in the quickest and most efficient way possible. I would like to hear your thoughts on that - both of you."

"Varel and I are at your disposal, ser," Lowan said. "I expect you'll want to start out at dawn tomorrow, Captain, with all the soldiers I can spare to accompany you?"

Varel was still feeling somewhat stunned at the way his immediate future had just been so casually disposed of for him, but he had enough presence of mind to find the maps Cauthrien and Lowan needed to make their plans. They were fortunate that Arl Howe had not taken them with him to Denerim, as he had the others, judging by their absence.

Lowan trailed a finger on the map and said, "First, I recommend we take the North Road west to Highever and collect the garrison there, then circle around the Feravel Plains..."

The discussion broke up only when dusk had fallen and it was time for supper; Cauthrien excused herself to look in on her escort, and Lowan accompanied her. Varel stayed behind to write up notes and lists, only looking up when Lowan rapped at his door.

"Put your quill down, Varel, and let's get you fed," the captain said as he beckoned from the doorway. "I can hear your stomach growling even if you're too distracted."

Varel did not bother to deny it, since the pastries had long since been consumed, so he pinched out the candles the approaching evening had forced him to light, and rose to join Lowan.

"You're looking much better," Lowan said as they descended the stairs. "Especially after you had that gray mess shaved off your face."

"Better than 'starved and beaten', I hope?" Varel said, touching his cleanshaven chin with more than a little satisfaction. "Do I really look that bad?" He had noticed his clothes seemed to hang loosely on him, but had not given it much thought.

"'Beaten' is an exaggeration. You can't work if you're hurt too badly," Lowan said, black humor in the curve of his lips. "But you are more than a bit on the gaunt side. I suggest you let the housekeeper feed you up."

"She is simply ensuring her hired help remains too torpid to run away," Varel said, prim as any Chantry sister.

Lowan snorted. "Clara always did have a bit of a soft spot for you. I'd watch myself, if I were you - she's between husbands at the moment."

"Speaking of husbands... have you told your wife you'll be marching out soon?" Varel said, in an attempt to head off another round of teasing.

Humor fading from his expression, Lowan rubbed the scar where it continued from across his nose and onto his right cheek, then scrubbed his face with both hands and grimaced. "I expected something like this would happen, so she already knows. She's not happy about it, of course, but she knew what she was getting into when she married a soldier."

Since Lowan had married a woman who knew her own mind and was in the habit of giving her husband a piece of it when she felt he deserved it, Varel thought 'not happy' was a tremendous understatement. He was wise enough to say nothing.

After Varel informed the housekeeper that the cooks would need to prepare provisions for the soldiers marching out tomorrow, they joined Ser Cauthrien and her entourage in the hall for supper. She and the captain seemed preoccupied, and her escort was too busy shoveling food into their mouths with the single-mindedness of people uncertain of when the next hot meal would be forthcoming, so conversation was limited. This suited Varel quite well, because he was contemplating the logistics of the troop movements they had been discussing, and was feeling daunted by the enormity of the task before him.

As soon as Ser Cauthrien had settled her troops back in the barracks set aside for them to her satisfaction, she rejoined Lowan and Varel back in his office, where they continued discussing plans long into the night. By the time they finished, even the knight was looking tired, and Varel was exhausted, his hand cramping from taking so many notes. He and Lowan rose to their feet when she stood.

Cauthrien declined the use of the guest chamber that had been prepared for her. "I eat the same food as my soldiers, and I'll sleep in the same barracks. I expect to see you and your troops ready for a long march tomorrow at dawn, Captain. Good night." She made a palm-down gesture when Lowan would have followed. "Thank you, but I know my way there."

"Varel, you might as well take Aren's quarters," Lowan said as he returned to his chair, when Varel would have started for his pallet in the servants' quarters. "I already took the liberty of having your belongings moved."

Varel sat back down and glowered at the other man's high-handedness, but could not seem to muster much force. "That seems quite premature."

"Aren's either dead or he's scuttled all the way back from Denerim to hide behind Bann Esmerelle's skirts," Lowan said. "I suppose he could be cowering in a cellar like the rat he is, but since the bann hasn't demanded his reinstatement, I think he really is dead." He did not sound much put out by the possibility.

"That is rather out of character for Bann Esmerelle," Varel said, struggling to gather his wits together in the face of his weariness. "In fact, for someone who was so close to Arl Howe, she has been unusually quiet, even before Ser Cauthrien brought the official news of his demise."

"Well, it takes no stretch of the imagination to assume that she has her own spies in Denerim, and that they passed along the rumor that the last of the Couslands is still alive. Who won't be best pleased with anyone who has ever associated with the arl, and the nobles know it. The ones who aren't fools are hunkering down as best they can and praying the dragon will pass them by." Lowan rubbed his scar again. "For that matter, I wish _I_ had a hole deep and dark enough to hide in."

Varel was not fooled by the other man's bantering tone. "You are worried."

"Ferelden is in the grip of the first Blight in centuries! Even if Ferelden were united and stable, I would be worried. And now, thanks to short-sighted fools like Arl Howe, we are not." The captain's fingers tapped a nervous beat on the table. "I would almost prefer an Orlesian invasion - whatever else they are, they, at least, are human."

"Speaking as someone who lived through and fought in the rebellion, I actually find myself agreeing with you." Varel eyed the other man. "You have no more experience of darkspawn than I do. What is it you truly fear? Cousland retribution?"

Lowan looked like he wanted to deny it, then gave up. "Not so much for myself as for my family." He glanced at Varel, then looked away. "I have no right to ask anything of you, much less this, after everything that's happened between us, but... will you watch over them for me while I am away?"

"Lowan," Varel said. "You don't have to ask. I will."

"Thank you - I - thank you," the captain said, his eyes meeting Varel's again before dropping them. He stopped drumming his fingers on the table and gave the scarred surface a single decisive rap with his knuckles before rising. "Well, we both have plenty of work ahead of us, and dawn is not far off. I'm off to my bed, and you had better get to yours."

Neither of them spoke on the short walk from the offices to their chambers; Varel's thoughts were full, and suspected Lowan's were, too, if for different reasons. The captain bade Varel a good evening, and headed for his own quarters, leaving Varel staring at the door to the seneschal's chambers, located not too far away.

He had occupied them briefly - very briefly - before Aren had replaced him, and he was not certain he wished to move back in. Doing so would be an irrevocable step towards accepting that position once more, with all the responsibilities it entailed. It was true that the penalty for failure would no longer be taken out of his own hide, but any mistakes he made might well extract a price in the lives of those who depended on him. He had been on the wrong end of a supply line often enough to have no illusions.

But there was no one else as experienced as he was - Lowan had been right about that. And Queen Anora's own representative had appointed him; he was not sure what Ser Cauthrien's reaction would be if he shirked his duty, but the queen would not be best pleased.

Varel shook his head, opened the door, and stepped inside into complete darkness. Groping for a candle that should be sitting on a shelf just inside the doorway, he lit it from one of the torches in the hall, and surveyed _his_ chambers. There was little of interest in the outer room, which had been stripped of Aren's personal effects, so he entered the bedchamber. Someone had already prepared it, and the small, scarred trunk that had followed him from his father's farm all those years ago now sat in pride of place at the foot of the bed.

He knew he would stay; the decision had already been made somewhere on the North Road. He had not run when Arl Howe had humiliated him day after day, and he would not run now, when the arling needed him now more than ever. Someone had to look out for those small, powerless people who always found themselves being ground to bits beneath the schemes of the mighty.

That was the last coherent thought Varel had as the last of his energy ran out of him like water from a broken pitcher. He finished undressing, snuffed the candle, and was already asleep when he fell into bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Amaranthine's levies have been raised and gathered, and Varel sees his friend Lowan off to war, even if he can't quite forgive him.

It seemed to Varel then that things began to move quite fast, but perhaps that was due to his time in the mine, where one day was much like any other day. Lowan had already left with Ser Cauthrien to gather all available forces in Amaranthine, leaving his second, Rullens, in charge of a skeleton force to guard the Vigil.

The city guards would have only a fraction of its numbers to keep order, a state of affairs no one was happy with, least of all the bann, who tended to spread her ill temper around with a shovel when she was displeased. Varel suspected Bann Esmerelle was more put out by the fact that someone dared to command her than over the conscription of her watchmen. The nobles, who had been stripped of much of their household troops, were outraged by Cauthrien's demands, but none of them had been inclined to protest overmuch, especially when her small troop had shown up on their doorsteps bolstered by Lowan's much larger company.

Varel had not accompanied them; he had his hands full dealing with the logistics of supplying the levies, and worked with feverish haste through that _and_ the mountain of tasks running the Vigil and the arling entailed. Despite being up before dawn and not seeing his bed until long past dusk, he did all he was asked with a glad and willing heart, secure in the knowledge that Arl Howe could no longer harm him or anyone else ever again.

It was almost a shock when Varel stood on the battlements and saw the levies finally drawn up in front of the Vigil a fortnight later. To him they had only been numbers on parchment, measured in terms of so many supplies sent here or there - supplies he had to force reluctant nobles to disgorge, more often than not. Rullens had not been happy at being left behind, but having Crown authority to confiscate the needed rations, weapons, feed and the pack animals to haul them had been a pleasant consolation, restoring much of the soldier's good spirits.

"I didn't really believe the captain when he said you could do it," Rullens said as he, too, looked out at the neat rows of tents that covered the ground below the Vigil. He turned to examine the picket lines, which were just as well organized as the rest of the camp. "Maker, I didn't even know Amaranthine _had_ that many mules and horses."

A brisk sea breeze brought them the scent of cooking food and woodsmoke, and set the colorful pennants to snapping, the arms of every noble in the arling a sharp contrast against the darker shades of the woods. His spyglass had picked out some nobles who wore fancier armor, but the smarter of the lords and ladies preferred to pass themselves off as one of their common troops. It was a deception that had fooled Orlesian chevaliers, but he did not think it would do them any good against darkspawn.

"I don't know how you did it. I really don't," the soldier said, now gazing towards the temporary kennels placed at the other end of the vast field, set as far from the picket lines as possible.

"All you truly need is a thorough understanding of human nature." Varel's tone was dust dry.

"Well, however you did it, you and Captain Lowan worked miracles, ser, and that's a fact." The other man looked out at the levies spread out below and said, "I wish I were going with them."

Rullens held up a hand, shooting Varel an irritated look when he opened his mouth. "I know. I know! Someone has to stay behind, because Maker knows you can't do it all yourself. But I don't have to like it."

Varel stayed quiet, because Rullens did not want to hear it; the man already knew Lowan would not leave him in charge if he thought his second could not be relied upon.

"I suppose it would be nice to fight an unambiguous enemy for a change," Varel said, thinking of the times the arl had sent soldiers to frighten some poor farmer into line.

The other man snorted. "Indeed. You can't get much more 'unambiguous' than monsters out of legend." He straightened suddenly when something on the road caught his eye. "Say, is that the captain returning?"

Varel raised the spyglass to look, then lowered it and put it into his pouch. "Yes, I believe that is him leading the last column. Come, we should go and greet him."

Rullens followed him through the narrow door back into the fortress, moving up to Varel's side as they began the long descent down to the courtyard. On the way, Varel caught the eye of a servant and murmured a request for a hot meal to be sent to his office.

"When the captain told me that not only had he freed you, but that he was bringing you back here to the Vigil, I have to admit I had second thoughts about the wisdom of setting a - I beg your pardon, ser - a traitor in charge." The younger man paused, then said in a more bitter tone, "Or at least I did, before it turned out our own liege lord was the traitor all along."

"To be fair, I was as shocked as anyone else. I did not know the full extent of his crimes." Varel sighed. "All I could do was try to save those who found themselves in the arl's way as best I could."

Rullens might have said more, but they had reached the outer courtyard by then, where Lowan was just arriving. Varel let the younger man precede him in greeting the captain, while he took the time to catch his breath. A month was not enough time for him to regain his physical condition, and his pride did not allow him to admit it to anyone, much less to the captain's second; he did not think he could bear it if the conscientious Rullens offered to assist him.

The grooms were ready with mounting stools, but Lowan eschewed them, sliding out of the saddle without their assistance. Varel could only watch in envy as the captain handed off the reins of his horse and strode towards him with little sign of fatigue. Rullens was given the task of seeing to the captain's escort.

"Seneschal! So, you're still here," Lowan said with a wintry smile as he clasped Varel's hand. "Good, you haven't run away, even if that's what any sane man would do in your position."

Varel chuckled as he led the way to his office. "The thought has crossed my mind once or twice, I must admit, but I suppose I'm too stubborn to run. I expected Ser Cauthrien to accompany you - will she be arriving later?"

"She left once she was certain the last of the levies was raised," Lowan said. "She's too professional to show it, but I could tell she was anxious the entire time she was with me. She's worried, and jittery with it - not that I can blame her. If I have to guess, she's probably somewhere on the road to Redcliffe by now."

"That's a pity; I had arranged accommodations for her and her escort. Well, food, or a wash first?" Varel said when the other man brushed in vain at the road dust clinging to his armor and cloak. "I assume you will want to discuss the state of the levies with me. There is a meal waiting for you in my office when you are ready."

Gratitude flickered across Lowan's face. "Varel, you're a treasure - your talents were wasted in that mine." His features settled back into lines of grimness once more. Heaving a deep sigh, he said, "Food and talk first. Then... then I would like to spend time with my family."

"Of course."

By the time Varel locked the door, Lowan had hung up his cloak and was already sitting at the table, stuffing an entire slice of meat into his mouth. He was surprised to see a second tray placed on his desk; he had asked the servant for only one meal, not two. 

The captain swallowed a huge mouthful, pointed his belt knife at the other plate, and grinned. "I did warn you about the housekeeper. Best be aware of her intentions."

Varel turned a dry look on the other man, but decided he might as well join him, and moved the tray to the table. "So, you are determined to march the troops out tomorrow?"

"Yes," Lowan said, picking up a loaf of bread and using it to point at the wall, and the levies that lay beyond it. "They won't do anyone any good just sitting around out there, eating through the food supplies. Speaking of which, where are the soldiers from the city? I thought they'd be here by now, but I didn't see the bann's colors when I arrived."

"Ah, they already left for Denerim."

The captain nearly choked on his ale. "What! That's impossible. I only just pried them out of Bann Esmerelle's claws - er, I mean hands - the day before yesterday!"

Varel frowned. "Is she not leading them herself?"

Lowan vented a disgusted snort. "No, of course not - when I asked, as any self-respecting freeman would, she said she needs to personally maintain order in an important port such as Amaranthine in this time of war and chaos." It sounded like a direct quote, and one oft-repeated at that.

"How in the name of the Maker did she explain that to her freeholders and crafters?"

"The same way she explained it to me," Lowan said with a helpless shrug. "She's the bann of the city, and it's not like the crafters can just pick up their businesses and move them somewhere else. The freeholders, who can, are looking for any port in the storm now that we're facing a Blight for certain. And she might just have a point this time, much as I hate to admit it."

"Oh? Have you heard something new?"

"There are rumors that Gwaren has fallen to the darkspawn, and Teyrn Loghain was not there to prevent it. His people only managed to survive by escaping on ships."

Varel sat back, lips pursed. "That hardly seems fair - he might not have been able to prevent it even if he had been present."

"You know very well 'fair' or 'unfair' doesn't enter into this," the captain said. "He was supposed to protect them, and he failed in his duty. He wasn't even there."

"Instead, he was off in Denerim, where he seized power from his own daughter in the name of necessity, and declared himself regent - without the approval of the Bannorn," Varel said, shaking his head at the teyrn's political foolishness. "This news, coupled with the rumors of him abandoning the field at Ostagar, betraying King Cailan in the process, may well result in the teyrnir of Gwaren being stripped from him."

He wondered if Queen Anora was ruthless enough to do that to her own father, but then she might not have much of a choice if enough of the other nobles called for it. The teyrn was not without enemies - and there were more of them now than before.

"If that happens, he deserves it," Lowan said. "He broke his oath."

"I agree, but... it is a sad day." Varel felt only sorrow when he remembered how the Hero of River Dane had helped King Maric end the Orlesian occupation. He wondered what had become of Teyrna Celia, Loghain's wife, before he recalled she had died some years back. At least she had not lived long enough to see her husband's disgrace.

"Oh, yes, I forgot you fought in the rebellion - this is more of a blow to you than it is to me."

Neither of them spoke for a while as they ate, until Lowan shook himself and said, "Well, whatever happens to Teyrn Loghain is nothing to do with us - at least for the immediate future. As Ser Cauthrien said, if the darkspawn aren't stopped, they might well invade the Coastlands if they continue to sweep north. Say what you will of the bann, she's an able enough administrator that she can evacuate the folk in the city onto ships if she had to."

Varel made an unhappy sound at the thought of having to evacuate that many people. From the bleak look in Lowan's eyes, he was also aware of how much smaller the population of Gwaren was compared to Amaranthine.

Lowan shook off the gloom and said, "Well, let us hope the Grey Wardens can keep that from coming to pass. You were about to tell me what miracle you performed to get the city's troops to Denerim so fast."

Varel thought he could be forgiven if he was a trifle smug. "It hardly takes a miracle for them to leave by ship."

"Ship! How did you manage to get your hands on enough ships? Aren't they all too busy making gold hand over fist, ferrying refugees to Kirkwall?"

"Not all ships are capable of crossing the fickle waters of the Amaranthine Ocean in this season." Varel was too tactful to add _landsman_ at the end.

Lowan barked a cynical laugh. "I'm surprised they're not trying anyway, despite the dangers of capsizing."

"Oh, there are always fools greedy enough to try, and people desperate enough to believe they can outsmart the sea." The black humor drained out of Varel. "The fishermen have already had to rescue the survivors from one such unfortunate venture, and there have been others that went down with all hands. You might be able to press your luck once, or even twice, but sooner or later the Amaranthine Ocean takes her tithe."

"So, the city's troops are already in Denerim? If you managed to send them that way, I'm guessing you transported the supplies that way, too."

Varel shook his head. "No, only half have gone by ship, in case the sea is feeling particularly nasty; the rest of the supplies have gone by land. I would have liked to put the rest of the levies on boats, as well, but there are not enough to go around. Doing so with the few available craft would take so long that they might as well be going on foot."

"That's just what we'll have to do, then. The Pilgrim's Path is a well-maintained road, so at least we won't get stuck in mudholes if it rains. How in the Void did you manage to get your hands on boats, anyway?"

"As I was telling Rullens while we watched you ride in, all you truly need is a thorough understanding of human nature." Varel smiled at the impatient look Lowan gave him. "There were already people smarting at seeing profit slipping through their fingers because their boats are little more than barges, and not seaworthy enough to take out onto the open sea even on a good day."

"And as you're so fond of telling me, the Amaranthine Ocean doesn't _have_ good days."

Varel snorted. "Indeed. So it was not as hard as you might think to acquire enough boats for transportation, especially when I hinted - subtlely - that the Crown would approve my seizing them entirely, since we are in a time of war."

"I take it you weren't alone when you went to, ah, negotiate with the boatmen? Given you aren't sporting any gaping holes in your anatomy."

"Rullens might have mentioned in my hearing that the soldiers you left behind to guard the Vigil were feeling restless. And I might have suggested that it was a fine time of year to take in the fresh sea air down at the city's docks, and that I wouldn't mind some company - a large, heavily armed company - since I had some trifling errands to run."

"You are an evil, evil man, Varel," Lowan said, giving him an admiring look.

"It saved argument, you must admit."

"And Bann Esmerelle didn't get her pointy nose in a snit when you invaded her domain with that many soldiers?"

"She's never liked the boatmen; they're rude and crude and much too independent, so her token protests were somewhat tepid," Varel said. "But then the fact that there are people who do not submit tamely to her control always did irritate her."

Lowan laughed at that and shook his head. "I could listen to you skewer the harpy all night, but I want to know how you got the boatmen on your side, because surely that threat alone couldn't have convinced them. Not even the arl was crazy enough to tangle with them - not directly, anyway."

Varel suspected the lack of interference was due more to the fact that the boatmen were beneath the arl's notice rather than any actual forbearance. Still, if they had ever come to Arl Howe's attention, even he might be given pause when confronted by burly men who got that way from lifting heavy shipments day after day, and who could use their cargo-hauling hooks as easily as Lowan could his sword.

"Well, no," Varel said. "I paid them what they usually charge for passage, along with a small bonus - I'm not so stupid as to try to cheat them. And I had to promise Vigil's Keep would shelter their families if the darkspawn horde threatened the city."

At Lowan's raised brows he said, "They know, of course. Ships from Denerim and Gwaren continue to dock in Amaranthine, and they bring news as well as goods and refugees. The boatmen, unlike some of our arling's nobles, do not doubt it truly is as bad as Ser Cauthrien said."

The captain thought about it, then shrugged. "It's a neat solution; certainly I won't complain. Our own redoubtable housekeeper comes from a boatman family, doesn't she? If their wives and daughters are half as capable as she is, I feel sorry for any darkspawn foolish enough to lay siege to the Vigil. But..." He scrutinized Varel. "Something else is bothering you, isn't there?"

"Nothing to do with the preparations," Varel assured the other man. "I just feel something strange is going on, and I do not mean the darkspawn. I was in the harbormaster's office, and by chance I saw an open ledger the man was hasty to close. Very hasty."

"Not hasty enough to escape your eagle eye, I assume?"

"It is not so much what I saw as what he did," Varel said as he tried to explain his own nebulous doubts. "There are always several ledgers open at all times in the harbormaster's office, a fact that is about as remarkable as dung in a stable. The port is always busy, given that it is one of the largest in all of Ferelden; there are others, of course, but none that can handle nearly as much capacity. Which makes his actions look very odd. He knew it looked suspicious the moment he did it, I think, but I had enough presence of mind to look out the window and pretend I took no notice."

"Contraband, do you think?" Lowan's face screwed up as he tried to think what cargo Bann Esmerelle could possibly consider illegal enough to refuse, and failed to come up with an answer. "Smuggling? Everyone tries to evade the tax collectors, it's practically a game - one as entertaining as poaching - so it can't be that."

"No, or not entirely. It is just a feeling right now. I will have to dig deeper, talk to certain people, to see what I can turn up."

"You be careful, Varel," Lowan said. "If this turns out to be more than a feeling, there's a blasted good chance Bann Esmerelle's in it up to her beady eyeballs. She won't hesitate to put one nosy man snooping about in his place, and that place might very well be your grave, especially since I won't be here to watch your back."

"Oh, I think I know better than you what pitfalls await me if I were foolish enough to be less than cautious." Varel mopped up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread and finished it before he said, "That is all the news I have to impart. You?"

Lowan drained his tankard of ale before he spoke. "Nothing has changed - the plan is still to march the levies to Denerim and coordinate with the portion of the army Queen Anora left behind."

"I hope nothing comes of the Queen's caution, and that you will march right back when she releases you."

The captain stared into the bottom of his tankard as if it held all the secrets of the Fade. "You can still say that after everything that's happened? What I had to do to you?"

"Yes," Varel said, and Lowan looked up at his tone. "I was in no mood or position to appreciate it at the time, but you were right. Arl Howe would have taken immense pleasure in personally flogging me to death, though he might have taken equal pleasure in crippling me. You not only did what you could to minimize the damage, somehow you persuaded the herbalist to heal me. I am certain I would have died if not for her - and you."

Lowan grimaced, perhaps from looking at the same memories that plagued Varel. "It was that or having my ears ripped off. The wife was displeased. Very displeased. In the end, she was the one who convinced the herbalist, not me. Well, perhaps 'browbeat' is more accurate."

"I could well believe that." Varel smiled as he remembered that redoubtable woman telling him _About time you're back to work_ when she met him on his return. "Your formidable wife aside, you also freed me from the mine the moment you knew Arl Howe was dead."

The captain hesitated, then admitted, "Er, not quite. It took at least a sennight for me to work up the courage."

"I think you mean to say it took that long for people you trust to confirm your sister-in-law's story."

"Blast it, Varel, stop reading my mind!" Lowan's rueful words had more than a trace of a chuckle in it. "I swear, I ought to turn you in to the templars!"

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Lowan poured himself more ale from the pitcher left on the table, then said, "However grateful you are now, I doubt you've forgiven me."

Varel saw the pain in the other man's eyes, and opened his mouth. Then he closed it, because he owed the captain the truth, even if granting him forgiveness might be of some small comfort to Lowan before he departed on campaign. A campaign from which he might not return.

"I cannot honestly say I forgive you, or even that I can. I know you risked everything to salvage what you could from the situation. I know it, here." Varel tapped his forehead. Then he touched his chest. "But I still feel you betrayed all the years of our friendship in the doing of it."

Lowan bowed his head, and Varel heard him take a deep breath. With an effort Varel could only guess at, the other man met his eyes and said, "Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but then you've never stinted the truth when you thought I needed it."

Varel opened his hand, accepting the dubious compliment. "Have we cleared the air sufficiently?"

The captain regained enough of his humor to muster a small smile. "I think we have, yes."

"Good. Now, I believe your wife and children are waiting for you, and you should go see them before your wife breaks down my door."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel worries about the Blight, among other things.

**Harvestmere, 9:30 Dragon**

It had been three weeks since Lowan had led the levies down the Pilgrim's Path to Denerim, and a sennight since the last courier had reported. The captain sent messengers every three days, and when the latest had been overdue, Varel had sent one of his own, with an escort. They had not returned, and he had a sinking feeling he had sent them to their deaths. He considered sending another messenger by barge, then thought better of it. The boatmen would demand a high price for such dangerous work, one he simply could not afford.

He was more worried about the lack of communication than he dared admit to anyone, for which his fingernails had paid the price.

Only a fortnight ago, there had been a dramatic increase in the number of refugees from Denerim and Dragon's Peak, and their answers to his questions had not been reassuring: darkspawn had been sighted to the south of the capital, large groups of them banding together until they formed a vast vanguard. Now there was an ominous silence from the settlements beyond. Whether they had been cut off by the monsters or destroyed, there was no way to tell for certain.

But the Pilgrim's Path was empty now except for the Vigil's patrols; the steady flow of refugees had come to a abrupt stop, a fact that did not bode well. No ships larger than a barge had come from Denerim for days; in fact, there seemed to be no vessels coming to Ferelden at all - not that he could blame them. News of the Blight had been traveling for months, spread by sailors and merchants and Chantry clerics, so it was no wonder they were staying away.

Varel had chanced to be in the City of Amaranthine when the last ship from Gwaren, riding low in the water with the weight of that teyrnir's refugees, had docked. She had been in dire need of fresh supplies and water, but her captain had feared the desperation of Denerim's citizens too much to make his usual stop at the capital.

That was bad enough, but what truly frightened him was the unnatural darkness that had first showed as a black line to the south a few days ago.

At first he had thought it was a storm, but it had grown with every day that passed, until it covered the entire southern horizon - and it was centered on Ferelden's capital. He was not the only one who felt a nameless dread at the sight; plenty of the Vigil's people made warding signs and averted their eyes whenever they saw it.

He was becoming more and more certain that the Grey Wardens were wrong about where the archdemon would emerge, and he could only hope that someone had come to the same conclusion and sent a messenger to warn the armies at Redcliffe in time to save Denerim - and the soldiers defending it.

There was little he could do for them other than ensuring the arling's nobles relinquished the needed supplies and that they were being transported by barge in a timely fashion to the capital, while they still could. The more intelligent of the nobles only put up a token protest, because they knew that if Denerim fell, the darkspawn horde would advance upon Amaranthine. If that happened, they had little with which to fight them off, now that they had been stripped of the bulk of their troops.

As it was, everyone was having trouble with brigands; not all the refugees who made it as far as Amaranthine was able to afford passage to the Free Marches, and those unfortunate souls had little choice but to steal if they did not want to starve, or watch their families starve. Varel's heartfelt sympathy did not stop him from ordering the hanging of those who tried to steal from the Vigil's supplies.

Bann Esmerelle had gone even further, and after hanging those desperate enough to attempt the city's granaries, she had had them beheaded and their heads stuck on pikes as a salutary warning to future attempts. Knowing what he knew of the bann, he thought it was more an opportunity to exercise her malice than an honest need to establish absolute control and authority from the very start. But whatever he had against the bann, at least she had been intelligent enough to stabilize prices and punish price gougers. Riots would be bad for business, after all.

The problem was not going to get better, and instituting increasingly draconian punishments was unlikely to solve it. Varel was hard put to find a good answer, but he thought he had come up with at least one - though it was one that might bring problems of its own in the future. With a mental shake of his head, he dismissed his doubts; it was the immediate future he was concerned about, and he would just have to leave the far future to its own devices. The trick now was how to persuade Rullens to go along with it.

And there Rullens was now, riding into the outer courtyard. Even from his office Varel could see the young man looked unhappy - as well he should, given how thin his forces were spread. Varel sat back down at his desk, knowing a servant would pass along his message; Rullens was not one to tolerate someone badgering him or trying to stampede him into a decision, especially when it concerned his duty.

Varel was therefore surprised when there was a knock on his door some time later, and saw Rullens when he called for them to come in. "I thought you would still be settling the soldiers down," he said, and made haste to gesture the other man to a seat. "I did say in my message that it was not urgent."

Rullens's hair was still wet from his bath, but other than that, he was turned out neatly, though he had put off wearing his armor. Smoothing a wet strand back off his forehead with an impatient swipe of his hand as he sat down, he said, "I know, but the captain told me if you ever requested a meeting right after a patrol, I should listen. The reports can wait."

"Then let me call for a meal to be brought up," Varel said, half rising from his chair before the other man shook his head.

"I saw the housekeeper when I came in, and she said she'll send something up for both of us. You'd missed dinner, and you know how she disapproves of you missing any meals," Rullens said, and was all innocence when Varel gave him a sharp look.

Declining to be baited, Varel sat back down and said, "Very well, to business then - which I can sum up in four words: we need more soldiers."

Instead of starting the fierce argument Varel expected, Rullens opened his mouth, closed it, and finally settled for saying nothing. Varel's brows rose, but instead of pressing the other man, he set out two mugs and poured tea from a waiting pot.

"You know I'm unhappy about how thin we're spread," Rullens said after a few sips of tea. "And the fact that every noble and the city guard has to deal with it, too, doesn't make me feel any better. It makes me feel exposed."

"Did something happen?" Varel said in his gentlest tones.

A knock on the door interrupted whatever Rullens might have said, but Varel was glad for it; whatever was bothering the younger man, he needed time to compose himself. A servant brought in two trays of food, and set them as well as a full pitcher of ale down on Varel's desk with deft hands, then nodded at Varel's thanks before leaving them alone.

Instead of reaching for the ale as a man fresh from what looked like a long and tiring patrol would, Rullens took a determined swallow of his tea instead. The scents of freshly baked bread and roast venison were quite appetizing to Varel's empty stomach, but he did not allow the food to distract him from Rullens when he spoke.

"We were patrolling the Pilgrim's Path when we ran into a caravan under attack by bandits, and we had to help fight them off," Rullens said, looking ill - which explained why he had not yet touched his food. "Except these weren't really bandits - they were refugees. Starving refugees. Some of them were hardly older than children, and I could count the ribs on every one of them."

Varel's heart went out to the younger man, because he had no doubt Rullens had been forced to hang and behead every single one of them. "I'm sorry."

Rullens opened his hand. "I'm just glad we weren't so near to the city that Bann Esmerelle's guards could claim precedence and hack the poor bastards apart, too. Not to say the guards aren't decent folks, it's just that they have to follow orders, no matter how appalling they are. Anyway, that's why I don't plan to argue with you like I might have if I had come in a few days ago. Maybe if we had more soldiers on the road, it will deter more of them from thievery." He did not sound very hopeful.

"I see." Varel deliberately took out his belt knife and cut a slice of the venison, which was getting cold, in the hopes that the other man would follow his example. "Have you thought on my suggestion?"

"You want to recruit from the refugees," Rullens said, then stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth, and swallowed. He frowned and said, "But are you sure they're up to the task?"

"Rullens, not all of the refugees fled because they were cowards - it was because their liege lords died trying to withstand the darkspawn, and could no longer protect them. Given the choice between making a hopeless last stand and watching their families die, or flee, they chose the latter. I can't say I would not have chosen the same."

"Better to have them with us than against us, eh?" Rullens applied himself to his meal for a few moments, then said, "All right. I certainly don't know where else we can find willing bodies. But how are you going to pay for all this?"

Varel sighed. "The short answer is that we can't. But new recruits do not receive pay, in any case, especially since we will have to provide arms and armor for them, in addition to room and board."

"Huh, now that's true. That gets us off the hook for a few months, maybe even half a year. That's time we can spend earning their loyalty. After that, though..."

"Security and protection for their families may well be an even more valuable coin than gold."

Rullens grunted. "They might take the gold and flee to the Free Marches, if we had it to give. Which we don't."

It was a bleak thought. Varel had no idea how the surface dwarves who ran the bank had taken the news of Arl Howe's treachery, but he imagined they had smoothed what would have been a long and tedious process to freeze the arl's assets for the Crown once he had been posthumously convicted of treason.

It still meant he had no access to it, except for that small portion some foresighted soul - perhaps even Queen Anora herself - had approved for the running of Vigil's Keep. It was not enough to hire more soldiers, which was a wise decision - but it did not help their current situation.

"It is not just soldiers we need," Varel said. "In a fortnight or so, the harvest must be brought in; if our people in Denerim do not return in time, we will need all the hands we can get with which to do it."

Rullens grimaced. "Harvests all over Ferelden will be short this year. Ours might well be some of the best in all the nation, simply because we are the farthest north."

"All the more reason we must train more soldiers if hungry, desperate people are willing to band together to raid caravans. It will only grow worse." Varel bit into a piece of bread, well aware of how many of the refugees were starving.

"There's another reason, too, isn't there?"

"Some of those who went to Denerim will not return," Varel said, pleased with the other man's astuteness, even if the subject was discouraging. "That would be true of any campaign, but this time they are up against darkspawn during a Blight, and they cannot be stopped until the archdemon is defeated. We must anticipate heavy losses."

Varel did not tell Rullens that all the previous Blights had lasted years before they ended; even the shortest had taken over a decade. The Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer in the city had a more extensive library than most, thanks its wealth and importance, and the few books and scrolls he had found that mentioned the subject did not fill him with hope.

Oblivious to Varel's concerns, Rullens nodded, his anguish showing only in his eyes. "You're right. Blast."

"There is another reason," Varel said. "Did Captain Lowan tell you what happened to Captain Chase and his soldiers?"

Rullens winced. "He told me, but I didn't really believe it. I mean, think about it! How did two Grey Wardens, a mabari, and a couple of mages manage to defeat Chase and a dozen - a dozen! - of our best soldiers? Chase was a sadistic bastard - not to mention a liar and a thief - but no one can say he was a coward, nor unskilled in arms."

"The powers of the mages are not to be discounted, and Lowan said the Antivan Crows were somehow involved as well. Regardless of how it was accomplished, it means we were under strength even before most of our troops were sent to reinforce Denerim."

"True enough." Rullens pushed his empty plate away, stood, and went to lean on the wall beside an arrow slit. He frowned down into the courtyard as he thought.

Varel knew the emptiness of the Vigil's barracks bothered the younger man a great deal, and he finished his own meal as he waited for the other man to reach the same conclusion as he had.

"All right, but I think we need to bring Armsmaster Sandis into this," Rullens said, turning to face Varel. "We're too shorthanded for me to stay here at the Vigil and help train."

"I know, and it is my hope that with the both of us persuading her, she will agree with the proposal."

"I don't know her as well as I should," Rullens said, sounding apologetic. "Do you anticipate resistance?"

"Not... resistance, as such. She has taken raw farm boys and farm girls and turned them into soldiers for longer than you have been born."

"A grudge against you?" Rullens raised his brows in surprise. "You're the least quarrelsome man I know."

"Oh, hardly." Varel suppressed a smile as fond memories of Sandis played across his mind. They had been lovers for a time before she met her husband; beneath the scarred exterior, harsh voice and razor-edged tongue was a passionate - and inventive - woman. But that was none of Rullens's business.

A thread of impatience leaked into Rullens's voice as he said, "What then? I prefer not to go into a hard fight blind."

"Part of it is a pragmatic concern over just whom the new soldiers would swear their oaths to. We have no liege lord at the moment, and we have had no further missives from the Crown as to what will happen to the arling, and it would be inappropriate - not to mention illegal - if _I_ took their oaths."

Rullens blinked as he digested that. "Oh. That's... a very good point. I see you talked to her already. Did she refuse entirely?"

"No - she said she would think about it, and she's had a few days to do so. I fully understand her reservations, but she also knows how precarious the arling's situation really is." Varel frowned down at his empty plate. "That attack on the caravan is but a harbinger of more trouble."

Rullens's brow furrowed. "You know, now that I think about it, I'm surprised none of our nobles have put themselves forward in Arl Howe's place. You'd think they would've done something by now, with most of Ferelden in chaos."

"Part of the reason is due to their lack of troops," Varel said. "Otherwise fighting would already have broken out. The other part is that they also know Bann Esmerelle is in the best position, and she retains enough resources to subdue anything they can bring to bear. Not without losses of her own, but she would win, in the end."

"And I bet _she_ hasn't dared make a move because the Grey Wardens have her scared shitless," Rullens said with a bared-teeth grin. "One of them in particular, anyway."

Varel smiled, not immune to the fierce satisfaction the other man radiated. "I would have put it somewhat more delicately, but yes."

Any Fereldan would feel some wonder that the last two Grey Wardens had survived the disaster that had killed the king and all the other Grey Wardens at Ostagar. That they had then gone on to do their ancient duty while defeating everything Arl Howe and Teyrn Loghain could throw at them made them worthy of the greatest respect. And Fereldans were still close enough to their savage Alamarri barbarian origins that they took immense enjoyment in a great revenge story. If Ferelden survived the Blight, the bards would probably sing songs about them for years.

It was little wonder then that no one had dared attempt the arl's place, even though the Grey Wardens were not likely to survive meeting the archdemon. Still, no one wanted to chance it and end up missing a head like Arl Howe.

Varel shook himself. "Well, that is neither here nor there. To return to our discussion, Sandis is also concerned about the reactions of the refugees we do not plan to pick for our forces."

Rullens shook his head. "We can't let fear of what they might do dictate our actions."

"I know, and Sandis knows that, as well, but she fears that the lack of oaths might induce the new recruits into helping their fellow refugees, rather than their benefactors."

"But if you're serious about sheltering their families here - I think that is enough to ensure their obedience." Rullens straightened. "Come, let's go see the armsmaster - the sooner we start, the sooner we can make our numbers back up."

Varel followed Rullens down and then out into the inner courtyard, taking care to avert their eyes from the darkness that blackened half the sky to the south. No one knew for certain what was causing the unnatural phenomenon, but the scholars who studied in the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer said it was one of the signs of a true Blight. Varel was not inclined to argue with them.

They walked to the long, low building that was the Vigil's armory. Next to it was the salle, a place the Orlesians had built to train out of the weather when they occupied the keep during the occupation. For the _noble_ Orlesians, rather; their own common troops drilled out in the open.

When the Howes had taken back possession of their home, they had, for the most part, eschewed it like proper Fereldans, but had not been able to bring themselves to demolish it, hated relic of the occupation though it was. The reason was apparent the moment they stepped inside: the man-high mirrors the Orlesians must have imported at ruinous expense, which lined both of the length-wise walls, showing doubled reflections of Varel and Rullens as they crossed the room. Though it was considered effete to use the salle, the armsmasters of the Howe family had used it like any other tool to turn raw recruits into proper soldiers. Sandis was only the latest in that line.

Sandis herself emerged from the back office when she heard the sound of their boots on the polished wooden floor. Now she propped her fists on her hips and growled, "Brought reinforcements, did you?"

Rullens gave the armsmaster a wary look, for which Varel did not blame him. Sandis was as tall as the captain's second, and her short-sleeved gambeson revealed tanned muscular arms. Though she was only a few years Varel's junior, with hair almost as gray as his, she could outfight any man or woman half her age, and still have breath enough to criticize their form.

"If you're referring to our earlier discussion of training additional soldiers, then yes," Varel said, giving her his most charming smile. "But I am hardly bringing 'reinforcements' - we are all on the same side. Are we not?"

After a moment, Sandis jerked her head, exposing the scars from the wound on her neck that had marred her voice. "I'm not interested in having this conversation out here. Come in back."

He and Rullens settled into her tiny office, and hid a sigh of relief when he saw her take out two additional mugs and place them on her desk. Sandis had to be at least somewhat swayed to his idea for her to offer hospitality. She did not speak until she had served them all tea from a battered pot hanging from a hook in a little fireplace. The delicate fragrance mingled with the scents of armor polish, leather and wood varnish.

"Well? Let's have it," Sandis said. "If Varel's told you everything, I won't bother repeating myself. Besides, he talks more than enough for both of us."

Copying the armsmaster's brusqueness, Rullens leaned forward and said, "The long and the short of it, Armsmaster, is that we're spread too thin. Varel's suggestion is a good one, and I think we should adopt it as soon as possible. But your help is key to carrying it out."

Sandis glanced at Varel, and he said, "You know our problems are only going to get worse. Rullens had to help a caravan fight off refugees just a few days ago, and we both know there will be more as desperate people are forced to boldness."

"You think a show of force could stop 'em?" The armsmaster raised a skeptical brow, stretching some of the pale scars on her face.

"Perhaps not, but it might give some of them pause." Varel hesitated, then said, "It may save lives on both sides."

Sandis's eyes flickered at that, because she no more liked losing soldiers she had trained than Varel did, nor did she like seeing her people forced to kill civilians.

"It is also my hope that the nobles will follow our example, especially the bann," Varel said. At the armsmaster's disbelieving snort, he said, "We both know Bann Esmerelle is cruel and ruthless, but she has the intelligence to match it - her sole saving grace. There is already a substantial refugee presence outside the city, and her freeholders are pressuring her for more security as it continues to grow. Where else can she find more soldiers but amongst their ranks?"

"And if the other nobles see her doing it, they'll copy her, if only out of fear she's building her forces back up to use against them," Rullens said. "It wouldn't be the first time some ambitious lord or lady took advantage of the chaos to go a-conquering."

"Regardless of what the nobles do or not, we still need to replace the dozen Chase lost in Denerim, anyway, even if we didn't have to give up some of our own to the levies," Varel said. "Most of the arl's troops in Denerim died in his defense, but at least they were never truly part of the Vigil's forces."

The armsmaster's mouth worked as if she wanted to spit. "'Cause he hired prison scum to fill in the ranks, you mean."

Varel had his doubts they had _all_ been that bad, but said, "Then we should be grateful the Grey Wardens rid the world of them - and that the arl's preference for such meant our own were spared."

"Not that we have all that many to spare right now. None, in fact," Rullens said. "Why don't we recruit enough to fill out that missing dozen? If it doesn't work out to your satisfaction, we'll stop there."

The armsmaster raised her brows at the emphasis in 'your'. "You're leaving it up to me? You, too, Varel?"

Varel spread his hands. "You're the armsmaster - the onus of the work will be on you. I will, of course, offer you what assistance I can, but I do have my own duties."

Sandis frowned down at the table as she thought, then gave them a decisive nod after a few moments. "All right. It's a good compromise, and as long as both of you are aware of the dangers, I have no more objections. But for the love of Andraste, get me some folk who aren't completely ham-handed lackwits who can't tell the pointy end of a sword from the other."

Too disciplined to show his triumph in anything more than a smile, Rullens nodded. "Thank you, Armsmaster. If there's nothing further to discuss? No? Very well, then please excuse me, as I need to see to my own tasks."

As they stood, she said, "Varel, you stay."

Rullens cast a curious glance back before leaving Varel to the armsmaster's mercy. Varel knew that tone of voice, and tried not to think badly of the other man for abandoning him. Sandis uncoiled herself from behind her desk, stalked over to Varel, looked him up and down as if he were a horse of dubious lineage on display, then draped a friendly arm over his shoulders.

Giving his stomach a few firm pats, Sandis said, "I see the housekeeper's done a good job of feeding you up, so I think you're finally fit enough for training practice."

"'Training practice'?" Varel said weakly.

Ignoring him, Sandis said, "You were stuck in that mine hauling rocks, so you're not as bad off as some of the other poor bastards who got on the arl's shit list. You can thank Lowan for that."

"I did," Varel said.

The armsmaster averted her eyes, and her voice softened as much as it could. "If you hadn't been so blasted stubborn, I could've gotten you out long before the arl caught up with you."

"I know," he said, and patted the hand that was suddenly gripping his shoulder. "But I had to give the others enough time to escape, and I knew the arl would delay pursuit long enough to deal with me."

Sandis rolled her eyes. "I swear, the Chantry ought to nominate you for one of Andraste's martyrs. You're too blasted noble for your own good."

Varel smiled, because other than springing the surprise of 'training practice' on him, this was nearly word for word the same conversation he had with her the second day after Lowan had freed him. "A personal failing, I know. In truth, I did not anticipate how severe my punishment would be, which was just as well, or I might not have warned the freeholders."

It was unfortunate that she looked back up before he had time to assume a more serious expression, and her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits at him.

"You can wipe that smirk off your face right now," Sandis said, poking him hard in the stomach. "Now, I know for a fact Lowan saved your armor, because I watched him put it in the armory. Since I've got nothing to do except keep the patrols in fighting trim whenever they're rotated back here, at least until we get our first recruits, I'll have plenty of time to devote to you. After all, if the darkspawn make it all the way up here, you're not going to impress them with fine words and a sharp quill."

"So very kind of you," he said in a faint voice.

"Indeed it is. Now, what do you say?" Sandis said in a honeyed voice - as much as her marred throat allowed - as to a child she had just handed a sweet.

Varel tried not to sound too resigned. "Yes, Armsmaster. Thank you, Armsmaster."

Sandis let go of him and jerked her chin at the door. "Good. Tomorrow morning. Dawn. Full armor. Training field."

There was only one thing Varel could do. He retreated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel seeks to distract himself from the Vigil's severe losses to the Blight.

**Wintermarch, 9:31 Dragon**

Varel stared down through the arrow slit at the courtyard and watched the remnants of the Vigil's garrison train under the critical eye of the armsmaster; his heart was heavy when he saw how few they were compared to the new recruits drilling in a different section at the other end of the field.

The Blight was over, stopped before it truly began, and while he did not know how many had died to stop it, what he did know was that, of the levies that had marched out so proudly not that long ago, only a fraction had returned. He knew he should be grateful that the archdemon had been stopped in Denerim, and that the armies the Grey Wardens had gathered had been able to contain the darkspawn horde, but he could wish they had done so sooner.

The remnants had brought back the news that Lowan had died retaking the main gate of Denerim after being overwhelmed by the darkspawn vanguard. The captain had rallied the scattered troops and held the gate long enough for the allied armies to enter the capital.

Varel took a breath, then exhaled, but the attempt to calm himself did little to ease the pang in his heart when he thought of all the captain had survived in Arl Howe's service, only to be brought down by darkspawn - darkspawn! - just when he had escaped from under their liege lord's oppressive thumb.

Forcing his hand to relax its death grip on the rough stone of the narrow sill, Varel reminded himself that he needed his wits about him. The same messenger who had brought the news from Denerim had also informed him that Queen Anora was still alive, and he should expect an official delegation to arrive in a fortnight, bearing a royal decree as to what was to happen to the arling. A great weight of expectation rode on that small piece of parchment; every noble must be dying to hear what the Crown had decided. Would the Crown appoint a new liege lord, or would they announce a tournament, as was old tradition?

There was time yet before they - whoever they were - arrived, and he intended to get a start on his investigation. It would take him out of the Vigil, where some losses were still too raw to bear, and where he would not see the anguish on the faces of the survivors. Lowan's wife was one, and though her children were too young to truly understand what had happened to their father, their confusion was almost worse. Nearly everyone in the keep had lost a loved one, or knew someone who had. The First Day celebrations this year had been as somber as funerals, and he expected Wintersend to be no better.

It was suddenly unbearable for him to remain here any longer. Even the mine was starting to look like a good refuge.

Sorting through the papers, parchments and scrolls on his desk took only moments. Like everyone else, he had thrown himself into his work to keep his grief at bay, the result of which gave him a sennight or so to spend in the city. The resumption of trade was already apparent, given the number of sails that had appeared just after the height of the fighting in Denerim. It should be the perfect time to nose about while everyone was busy making up for lost time, but not so much that his contacts had no time to talk to him.

It would be irresponsible to leave without telling anyone, so Varel threw on his cloak, intending to find the new captain, but ran into a boy before walking much more than a few steps out the door. "Jacob? A message for me?"

"Yes, ser," the boy said, handing Varel a scrap of much-scraped parchment. "I'm to wait for a reply."

Varel glanced at the untidy scrawl, and said, "I have a better idea. Come with me."

Jacob ducked his head and trotted beside him as he started on his way once more, and did not see the thoughtful look Varel rested on his tousled head. Jacob's parents were soldiers who had accompanied Lowan to Denerim, and had lost their lives fighting the darkspawn. His situation was by no means unique, and Varel was not certain what to do about the boy.

The nobles who had sent their children as squires and pages to the Howe household had long since taken them back, once the arl's treachery - and death - became known. Jacob, along with some of the other more neat-handed children, had been pressed into service in their place. The master of pages had thrown his hands up when Varel had first broached the idea, but they had both known there was nowhere else but the Chantry for some of them to go.

"Have you ever been to the city?" Varel said on a whim as they descended to the inner courtyard. He flinched at the chill that cut him to the quick when he pushed open the thick door. Winter had Ferelden deep in her icy grip, and the violence of the gusting ocean winds lent an edge like a razor-sharp knife to the cold.

The boy jerked his head up, startled at being addressed, then he nodded. "Yes, ser." Grief flickered across his face when he said, "Mum and Da took me there a lot when they had leave."

"And how are your studies coming along?" Varel said to change the subject, and had to hide a smile at the face Jacob made.

The boy shrugged one shoulder. "All right, I s'pose. Master Seris says I write a nice round hand, but he still yells at me for spelling things wrong."

It was the sort of answer Varel had expected, and Jacob did not volunteer anything more. "Thank you, Jacob. Run along now," he said, once they had reached the barracks.

Well aware that only proper work kept small boys out of mischief, Sergeant Maverlies took firm charge of Jacob as soon as they arrived. Varel saw Rullens speaking to Garevel, and as he strode over to them, his eyes were drawn to the horizon, where the sentries had seen a great column of light to the south. No one knew what that had portended, but the unnatural darkness had vanished soon after, showing only clean sky and clouds once more. That can only be a good thing.

"I want to double the patrols on the Pilgrim's Path," Rullens was saying to his second, his breath puffing out in white plumes in the cold weather. "And I want you to take one of them yourself."

"You don't think the new recruits are too green?" Garevel said. "Sandis has done her best, but if we double the patrols, we'll be spreading our more experienced soldiers very thin. And we don't have enough horses for - oh, hello, Varel."

"Why are you doubling the patrols on the Pilgrim's Path?" Varel said. "Has there been trouble?"

"Just a precaution," Rullens said. "There have been reports of darkspawn sightings at some of the more isolated farms to the south. As if we didn't have enough trouble with deserters and refugees-turned-bandits!"

Varel now understood the new captain's concerns. "It would be a fine thing if the royal messenger is eaten by darkspawn on the way here."

"Indeed." Rullens turned back to his second and said, "I know we don't have enough horses, so they'll just have to patrol on foot."

Garevel raised his brows. "All of them?"

"Of course," Rullens said. "If some are mounted and some aren't, there'll be resentment."

"They'll grumble," Garevel said.

Rullens waved this away. "As long as they grumble on patrol, I don't care. Few things bond new soldiers together than bitching about their commanding officers."

Though he still wore an expression of doubt, Garevel said, "Yes, ser. I'll go draw up the schedules."

"Talk with Sandis first - she'll know better than either of us which of the recruits are ready." Rullens jammed his helmet back on his head, cinched the chin strap, and dismissed his second to his task before turning to Varel. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but I didn't expect you to come yourself."

"It's quite all right, I wanted to stretch my legs," Varel said, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself as a cold, brisk wind set it flapping, and was grateful for the arming doublet under his armor. "And there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. Nothing urgent," he added when Rullens looked worried.

"Let's get in out of the cold," the captain said, jerking his thumb at the barracks. "Been a hard winter," he said as he opened the door and gestured Varel inside.

Varel was glad of the warmth that met him once inside, and stopped clutching his cloak. "Yes, but at least we won't be hungry, even if our belts will be cinched a notch or two tighter by the time spring comes." He did not say that there was enough to go around only because so few had returned from Denerim.

"Only thanks to your foresight. If you hadn't hired those extra hands to bring in the harvest, we'd all be eating our boots without sauce right now," the captain said as he led Varel into a cramped room that smelled of tea, leather, and metal polish. Rullens jerked his head at a few soldiers loitering about, then motioned for Varel to sit at the battered wooden table as the others left.

"'Twas only common sense," Varel said as he hung up his cloak, and took the crude clay mug of tea the captain offered him, grateful for the heat that seeped into his cold hands. The brew was bitter and unsweetened, as the soldiers liked it, and hot enough to scald his tongue, but it warmed him right up. He sat down and said, "What was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

Rullens unstrapped his helmet and hung it on a hook before sitting down next to Varel with a mug of his own. "I'm worried about these darkspawn sightings. I thought they were supposed to go back underground after a Blight ended."

"So the lore goes." Varel was not certain how much faith to put in books written about events that had happened four centuries ago, but decided not to burden the captain with his doubts. "There is little advice I can offer you on this, I'm afraid."

The captain pulled off his arming cap and rumpled his hair. "I was hoping you might've found something more in those dusty old Chantry archives. Do you think you could send a message to the Grey Wardens? That messenger said they were still alive, right? They're staying at the palace, aren't they? I'm not sure it would do any good, or even if they'd answer, but I figure it wouldn't hurt to ask."

"I will draft a message at once," Varel said, glad there was at least one thing he could do. "But what will you do in the meantime?"

"What else can I do? Train more scouts and send out more patrols, and pray they do us some good," Rullens said in a frustrated growl. "Well, enough about my problems. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Did Lowan ever tell you about my suspicions regarding the trade in the city?"

"He mentioned smuggling, but I don't remember much else," Rullens said. "I was too busy getting the troops ready for the march."

"I don't know if it _is_ smuggling, or, if it is, perhaps not simple smuggling," Varel said. "I know not. All I have are suspicions, which is why I would like to take some time to investigate in the city."

Rullens frowned. "But we're expecting that delegation from Denerim to arrive in a fortnight - are you certain you should be gallivanting about the city at such an important time? It's not like you to -"

"Abandon my duties?" Varel finished for him. The captain winced and had the grace to look embarrassed. "I assure you, I only intend to spend a sennight there. That should be enough time for me to draw some initial conclusions, and perhaps formulate a plan. If my suspicions prove to be baseless, I will return at once."

"Well, all right. It occurs to me you've never even gone to visit the tavern in all the time you've been here, just to the Chantry and the docks. I suppose we can do without you for that long. Just don't blame me if you return to find the Vigil has been burned down to the foundations."

Varel laughed. "I will try not to."

Rullens sobered. "Are you certain you should do this alone? Lowan said Bann Esmerelle might be involved, and she's never been one to brook interference in her affairs."

"Worried I will end up face-down in a ditch?"

"It's not funny, Varel. Bann Esmerelle didn't get her reputation by being _nice_."

"I did have a thought as to how to avoid suspicion, which you might object to." Varel hesitated, but went on when Rullens made an impatient gesture at him. "I would like to take Jacob."

"Jacob? The boy's only, what, twelve? Thirteen? He won't be much help if Esmerelle decides to send her thugs after you. Just because the Crown appointed you doesn't mean you're untouchable."

Varel had taken a more cynical view of his selection than Rullens and said, "The Crown did not so much appoint me as picked some innocent bystander out at random, and said, 'You are in charge now, and if anything goes wrong we shall blame you.'" That the 'blame' might result in a beheading or hanging was implied. "In any case, I did not plan on going as myself."

Rullens raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Surely you're much too well known to be able to go incognito."

Varel smiled. "Remember what I told you about human nature. One man alone would draw unwelcome attention, but a man with a boy would draw no notice at all. Especially if they dress the part."

"Oho. So you want Jacob to be your decoy, eh?"

"Only if he agrees, of course. I've yet to ask permission of the master of pages, not to mention the housekeeper. And since Jacob, by way of his parents, is in your service, I would not dare to presume." Varel gave the captain an expectant look.

Rullens's brows drew down. "You won't make him do anything dangerous, will you?"

"Certainly not. With such scant details, I must begin by doing some initial reconnaisance." Varel took thought for a moment. "He will be most useful keeping his eyes and ears open while running the sort of minor errands any boy his age might be given."

The captain gave him a hard look. "All right, but I warn you: if he gets hurt on your watch, it will go very hard with you."

"I expect nothing less."

Warning delivered, Rullens relaxed and said, "Where will you start?"

"The boatfolk. They are so ubiquitous that they are far below the notice of Bann Esmerelle, yet they see and hear everything that goes on. And if they do not know, they'll know someone who will."

The captain looked impressed. "You have an actual contact with the boatfolk? They're notoriously insular!"

"I wouldn't if I - we - had not persuaded them to provide transportation for the levies."

Rullens gave him a dubious look. "Are you so certain they won't hold our show of force, er, I mean, our 'persuasion' against you?"

"Oh, they were not best pleased with me. Us. Make no mistake: they are not our friends, but I might yet be able to convince them to be our allies."

There was a knock on the door, interrupting whatever Rullens might have said. Garevel entered at the captain's command and said, "I have the lists, ser."

Rullens directed an apologetic look at Varel, but Varel rose to his feet. "We were just finishing up."

Before Rullens began to peruse the wax tablet Garevel had handed him, he said, "When do you plan to leave? Today?"

"No, tomorrow. There is too much that needs to be done today." With that, Varel excused himself, retrieved his cloak, and braved the cold outside once more.

The wind had died down for the moment, but it was still quite cold, even with the sun shining down with all its might from an eye-searing blue sky. He saw with approval that the inner and outer courtyards had been swept clean of snow; the chaotic jumble left in the wake of the arl's neglect when he returned from the mine was long gone. Down below the fortress, he spotted a team of templar recruits, Vigil soldiers, and city workers clearing the Pilgrim's Path. Whatever the state of the rest of the arling, at least the Vigil was running with smooth efficiency. That was something to be proud of.

Back inside the keep, he saw the housekeeper in a far corner of the throne room, but paused mid-stride in embarrassment when he saw she was drying her eyes. She was not the only one he had spotted crying in a corner somewhere; when he did, he always made haste in the other direction before he was discovered. This time, she spotted him before he could retreat.

After taking a powerful sniff, she stuffed the tear-soaked rag into her sleeve and turned red-rimmed eyes up to him. "Sorry. What is it, Varel?"

Varel raised a hand and turned to leave. "Nothing that cannot wait, Clara."

The housekeeper's tone went acerbic in a show of her old spirit. "I need somethin' - anythin' - ta take me mind off things, so just spit it out already."

Knowing that the deaths of her son and nephew to the darkspawn had turned her fiercely protective of the Vigil's orphans, he chose his words with care. "I would like Jacob's assistance with a certain matter I am investigating in the city."

Clara's brow furrowed. "Investigatin'? Ain't that t' captain's job?"

Varel controlled a wince at the very thought. "Rullens is a good man and a fine soldier, but he's as subtle as a bull, and he tends to get lost when ledgers and accounts are involved."

"Oh." The housekeeper mulled this over. "An investigation, ye say? 'Tis dangerous?"

"Not Jacob's part in it." I hope, he thought.

"Well. All right. Just ye make sure ye keep an eye on t' boy. Boys that age get up ta all sorts o' nonsense if ye leave 'em alone." Clara pulled out a piece of much-scraped sheepskin from a pouch and thrust it at him with the air of one exchanging hostages. "Now, if ye're goin' ta t' city anyway, ye might as well figure out how ta get t' Vigil these things."

He perused the list. They did need rope, leather, and oil, amongst other things, but... "How are we to pay -"

"Not me business," she said with appalling disregard for the difficulties of his position. "That's yer job, not mine, thank t' Maker, and glad I am of it. Now, I have ta go see ta supper for all them soldiers and recruits, so ye have ta excuse me. Speakin' o' which, ye should eat in t' hall more often, ye have had too many trays sent up o' late."

Varel glowered at the housekeeper's broad back as she bustled out, but left off with a resigned sigh. In truth, he had not expected her to give in so easily. He looked at the list again, then shoved it into his belt pouch and went off to tackle the master of pages.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel hears rumors that something is rotten in the City of Amaranthine - and it isn't the garbage.

Varel and Jacob waved goodbye to the wood-gatherer who had been kind enough to let them hitch a ride part of the way on his wagon, then they both turned to look up at the imposing gate that guarded the southern entrance into Amaranthine.

He grimaced at the sight of the body parts, well preserved in the bitter cold where they were hung on the walls, while the boy stared at them in morbid fascination. Bann Esmerelle had ordered the grisly display to deter refugees from turning to thievery; he wondered if some of them had been part of the same group Rullens had run into in that caravan attack. That incident had proved it was not really all that effective a deterrent.

Now there was just the slight problem as to just how they were to enter. Constable Aidan knew him, of course, and would not only allow him free passage, but also time for a chat.

The problem was that Varel was not wearing his armor, nor anything remotely respectable - that was the point. He and Jacob had donned the worst of the clothes the housekeeper had banished to the rag pile, in several layers to combat the winter chill. Woolen hoods, ragged and discolored, covered their heads down to their shoulders, and Varel wore a tatty scarf to hide his face.

He could bring the constable into his scheme, but he had not seen the man in more than half a year, and he did not know if Aidan was still trustworthy. These were desperate times, and even good men might do evil in order to protect those he loved. Lowan had proved that.

Not having the constable's help meant he and Jacob - in their current personas - were barred from the city, and he cursed himself for not thinking of this possibility sooner. Safely ensconced in the familiar routines and surroundings of Vigil's Keep, he had not imagined there would be so many refugees that the city had to keep them out. Still, Aidan was not his only contact; there had to be another way.

Some of the nearest refugees were warming themselves at tiny fires, and had been watching their arrival with bored expressions on their cold-chapped faces: elves, pushed out to the fringes of the crowd.

"Oh, great, more shems come," one elf said in disgust, and spat into the fire. "As if there weren't enough people here already, fightin' over the scraps the ones in the city throw us."

Varel placed a hand on Jacob's shoulder to restrain the boy before he could respond to the elf's disrespect.

Next to the fellow, a more open-minded - or, at least, less dismissive - elf woman gave Varel a closer scrutiny. "I dunno, that one be lookin' strong 'nough to fight in the Blood Duel. They allus lookin' fer new blood what can fight fer the crowds."

"T' Blood Duel?" Varel said, raising his voice a bit so that he could be heard over the scarf that covered his nose and mouth.

"Aye," the first elf said with a nasty smile. "Great lummoxes in armor bashin' away at each for money, while the crowds bay like dogs for blood and more blood. Good fun to pass the quiet winter nights."

"Could we go see?" Jacob said with all the curiosity and bloodthirstiness of a young boy. The two elves grinned, perhaps because all children, elven or human, were the same at that age.

"Mebbe. Got ta get inta t' city first," Varel said in what he hoped was a convincing accent.

The elves lost interest in them, concentrating on keeping warm. Varel walked through the refugee camp, wishing he had the resources to help them all, instead of the small fraction they could barely afford. Too many faces were pinched with both hunger and cold, too many sat in hopeless huddles, too many were turned inward to despair. Few hired in winter; every household, whether common or noble, knew down to the mouthful how much food was required to get through the dead season, and were not willing to feed strangers what they needed for their own.

Here and there he could see Chantry sisters and brothers moving among the refugees, the only spots of color in the crowd, with a few watchful templars in their shining armor in the distance to keep order. The Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer was one of the wealthiest in Ferelden, but not even they could afford to feed so many for long.

Jacob was quiet as he followed, which was out of character enough for Varel to notice, and he turned to see the boy was looking around with dismay. "Are you all right, Jacob? Cold? Hungry?"

"Naw," Jacob said, which told Varel the boy must truly be bothered by what he saw if he was refusing food. "I just never saw so many people outside the city when Mum and Da took me here before, only when there were fairs. And even then everyone was having fun, not like this, all sad and hopeless."

"Yes," Varel said, because there was nothing else to say.

Varel toyed briefly with the idea of seeking out whoever was organizing the fights, but decided he could not risk Jacob. A man desperate enough to participate in such blood sport would not do so with a young 'relative' in tow, and decided to walk to the path that led up to the cliffs on which the city perched.

"Where are we going?" the boy thought to ask, as they followed the city wall towards the sea.

"The coast," Varel said, picking his way over the rough, snow-covered ground, hunching whenever the ocean winds blew over him, which was often, striking through his layers of clothes like thrown swords. "Don't rush about like you do at the Vigil, now, it's slippery here."

There was only a faint, meandering little game trail beneath the wind-blown snow for them to follow once they left the main road, and so it took them some time to reach a place high enough to see the sails of the barges. Though hidden from view, the ocean still made its presence felt in the constant, dull roar of waves as it crashed against the rocks, like the earth's heart beating against Varel's boots.

The city sat on a rise, protecting with stout stone walls the great harbor that brought it trade and wealth; it spilled down in an untidy sprawl, lower and lower, to the ocean. The great gray cliffs that protected it from attacks on land were desolate, fit only for birds, mountain goats, buckthorn, moss, and stunted, spindly whitebeam trees that clung to their stony sides with grim determination. Everything seemed brown and shriveled as if to match the rock, and bare twisted branches reached up into the sky like skeletal hands seeking the sun. Varel still found a stark beauty in the scene, all the same, once he was sure he would not fall back down and break his fool neck.

Though Varel's lungs and throat burned with cold and the effort of climbing a rugged cliff to the west of the city despite his scarf, and the part of his face not covered stung before growing numb, still he took in great gulps of air that was laden with the smells of rotting vegetation, salt, and that peculiar dead fish odor that was common to every port on Thedas. The sight and scents of the sea never failed to lift his heart.

There in the shelter of two whitebeams with exposed gnarled roots that had intertwined together like linked fingers, where the cold wind did not howl with quite so much ferocity, Varel and Jacob huddled together under the coarse horse blankets that served as their bedrolls. They ate a simple meal of meat rolls, sharing watered ale from a skin, and watched the boats hug the coastline.

Flocks of seagulls wheeled and soared among them, and even at this distance they could hear their shrill, mournful cries. On a patch of beach surrounded by rocks, seals slipped in and out of the water with their pups. Red kites competed with the seagulls for carrion, while birds with white crests and pink bills he could not name dove into pools for fish.

Though not many ships were willing to brave the winter storms and treacherous ice that sometimes formed, there were still captains ambitious, or mad, or desperate enough, or all three, to bring their cargo even in winter. All this meant there was plenty to see. The cliff on which they perched protected one side of a beach, giving them a perfect view of all the activity below. None of the vessels dared attempt to approach too close, wary as they were of the many dangers at the base, concealed like an assassin's daggers under a cloak of spray and waves.

The docks were full of wintering ships, so clumsy, flat-bottomed cogs were driven right up onto the sand, where goods were loaded and unloaded into barges. Once this was done, the sailors, with much cursing, united to push their vessels back out into the sea. Varel did not envy them, for the water must be frigid as the Void.

The ships from faraway Antiva, Rivain, and Orlais stood out in sharp contrast to the cargo haulers; they were recognizable at a glance, with their sleek lines and graceful sails. Eschewing the cogs' unwieldy maneuvers, they slipped into the calmer waters protected by the bay and used pulleys on the decks to hoist cargo straight up from the barges that huddled along the flanks of the ships like ducklings.

It seemed Jacob's parents had not thought to take the boy to the docks, and he was fascinated by the seemingly infinite variety of designs of both the boats and their colors, and asked Varel a hundred questions, which Varel was happy to answer; the talk distracted them both.

The brilliant sails bellied in the stiff sea breeze, proudly displaying the fanciful pictures painted on them, but it was not until after midday that Varel saw the symbols he had been looking for. It was a cloudless, sunny day, and so he had no trouble directing a beam of light from a shiny rock he had found to one of the tiny figures on one particular barge. A mirror would have been better, but he had not thought of it, and there was no way someone so destitute as he was disguised as would possess such an expensive item. Not unless he wanted to be taken for a thief.

When the figures on the boat noticed they were being signaled, one of them waved a scarf as colorful as their sail in answer. Varel stood and waved, acknowledging the reply.

"You know them?" Jacob asked when Varel rolled up their blankets and began to lead him back down to the treacherous little trail.

"Oh, yes," Varel said, and smiled. "Rough boatfolk, coarse and uncouth, but not without honor. Or humor." He was relying on that sense of honor. And humor.

"D'you think they'd let me on their ship?"

And the sea claimed yet another heart. Varel grinned and said, "I will ask. In the meantime we will make camp here, and try to keep warm while we wait for someone to fetch us."

* * *

Dusk was descending by the time someone came to find them. Varel and Jacob had picked their way back down the cliff while they still had light to see, and had started a tiny fire in a hollow to keep warm. It was illegal to gather fallen wood when their liege lord had not granted them the privilege, and there was probably some gruesome punishment in store for committing such a terrible deed, but Arl Howe was dead. That thought warmed Varel almost as much as the fire.

Varel had wanted to return to the refugee camp, if only because it might be a little warmer with all those fires, but feared whoever the boatmen sent would not be able to find them among that vast crowd. Even though he had been expecting someone, his hand still went to his dagger, and for a moment felt the lack of his armor - and sword - most keenly.

The messenger was just another shadow among many, since the sun was setting behind him. When he came closer, out of the glare, he was dressed much like the refugee Varel pretended to be. 

His silhouette was shorter than Varel had expected, and his voice was higher. "Varel? I'm ta take ye to me da's boat."

"Tims, is that you, you scamp?" Varel said, squinting in the poor light. He relaxed and eased his grip on his dagger.

"Aye, ser. Can ye come now?" the boy said, crouching down on the other side of the fire and warming his hands.

About the same age as Jacob, Tims was one of the sharpest of the boatboys, and was often sent out on errands that required discretion. Varel had attempted to poach him for the Vigil, despite the fact that Tims's father had a thick, strong arm and wariness of the nobility.

"Yes," Varel said as he put out the fire with some snow, then made sure nothing was still smoldering. "This is Jacob. I know that complicates things, but I thought I would be less memorable if I came with a 'relative', rather than alone."

The boy's tone was somber, with none of his usual mischievousness. "'Twas wise of ye. 'Tis dangerous in t' city now."

"Have you had trouble?"

Tims made an averting gesture with one hand, the other going to his throat, where Varel knew he had a cheap Andrastian charm hung around his neck, under his clothes. "No one messes us boatfolk about, but t'others ain't been so lucky. People gone missin', and ain't no one knows where they gone."

Varel glanced at the nervous boy, then up at the sky, where the sun was almost touching the horizon. It was a lovely view, and normally he would take the time to admire it, but Tims's anxiety was contagious. "Very well. Let me wake Jacob and then we can be on our way. You have a plan for getting us into the city, I hope."

A little of the boy's usual cockiness returned. "Aye, don't bother yer head none 'bout that."

Resisting the urge to give Tims a cuff about the ear on general principle, Varel pulled his scarf back over his face and shook Jacob awake. Jacob yawned, then scrambled up when he realized they had company, clearly wishing he had not been caught sleeping. The two boys eyed each other with equal parts curiosity and wariness, so like two dogs strange to one another that Varel had to smile, and was glad his face was hidden under his scarf.

"This is Jacob, Tims. Jacob, this is Tims, the son of my boatman contact. Now, let's be off."

Varel slung their bedrolls over his shoulder and gestured for Tims to lead them. The boatboy had them walking on a meandering path, not to the gate, but to a small, dilapidated shack on the edge of the refugee encampment, near but not too close to the wall. Dogs slept, or nosed about, looking for scraps. A figure loomed out of the shadows, hooded and cloaked, but his - or her - movements suggested a hand had been placed on a weapon; Varel forced himself not to reach for his dagger in response, and tried to look harmless.

Tims was in his element, and knew it; the boy swaggered up to the guard - for that was what they were - and muttered something Varel could not catch. Some token was shown or passed, but it happened too quickly for Varel to see what it was. The guard jerked their head, and faded back into the gloom once more. The darkness inside was leavened by smoky, smelly torches, revealing hunched figures bent over games of dice and cards in their fitful light. The tiny room was filled with the quiet rattling of the bones, sharp whispers of triumph and hisses of disappointment, and smelled of stale beer and too many unwashed bodies in too small a space.

None of the gamblers took any notice of them, too engrossed in their games or too drunk, Varel could not tell. Tims showed them a trapdoor in the very back, hidden under a pile of rags and rubbish, which explained the presence of the dubious establishment; it was a front, and Varel was glad for Jacob's sake that the proprietors had not chosen to use a brothel instead.

The boat boy gestured for Varel and Jacob to go first after handing Varel a tiny lantern, which had a loop that allowed him to sling it on his arm. Tims lit the wick with one of the torches, then opened the trapdoor. Varel could see why it was needed, for the rungs were damp and the darkness at the bottom was thick.

"I have ta close t' door," Tims said in a low voice when they paused on the edge. "And be quiet. Easy ta hear someone talkin' down there."

Varel nodded, and started down. They found themselves in a surprisingly wide, rough-hewn tunnel that brought up unpleasant memories of the silverite mine, but if anything this place was even more unsavory: it was dank and dismal, with a sheen of slimy condensation that covered the walls and made the stuffy air feel clammy. Dwarves would sneer at such shoddy workmanship. Up above, he heard a soft thud as Tims closed the trapdoor, then the slapping of the boy's shoes as he came down the rungs.

There had always been stories and rumors of roads the dwarves had built under Amaranthine, which had connected the cities of their vast kingdom before they had fallen to the darkspawn. Someone had followed their example, if not with the same skill, and it was obvious what use they could best be put to: smuggling. Varel wondered if Aidan knew of them - and whether the harbormaster did as well.

For that matter, did Bann Esmerelle know? It seemed unlikely; they did not look new. Did she play the smugglers against the Merchants' Guild, or did she use them herself? It was hard to imagine someone as rich as she was stooping to such, but he could well believe she did certain kinds of business away from the public eye. He would give much to know whether the tunnels were connected to the bann's palace in the city.

Tims set a brisk pace, but still Varel was surprised when the boy led them past only two turnings before pointing to a sturdy ladder set into a niche. Then he realized the distance traversed meant they should now be past the walls. After telling Varel to blow out the lantern and put it on the tiny shelf next to the ladder, Tims swarmed up the slimy wooden rungs like a monkey, then a blast of cold air heralded the opening of yet another trapdoor. Varel had Jacob go up next, while he held the light up for him, then he did as the boatboy instructed.

Varel's guess was borne out once he was on the surface once more and saw they were in a tiny cul-de-sac just outside the market. The entrance had been cunningly shaped as several cobblestones stuck together, weighted and balanced in such a way that even a boy could open it.

At first the road was open and wide, properly set with cobblestones, but as Tims led them away from the market, the streets grew more and more narrow and soon lost any semblance of paving material. They turned into stinking alleys and paths between houses that slumped against each other like drunkards, until they reached a bridge separating the foreign quarter from the slums. Varel was confused, until Tims beckoned him into the darkness underneath the bridge. From the feel of the space, the sounds of water slapping against wood, and betraying creaks, there was a boat there. Without making a noise, Tims disappeared like an eel over the side.

Knowing just whom he was dealing with, and despite the cold making him shiver, Varel waited for someone to give permission before boarding. Though it had been some years since he had last stepped foot on a boat, Varel had no trouble balancing on the bobbing, swaying surface, but Jacob was not. In the end Varel had to lift the boy bodily from where he had crouched in an uncertain dither beside the bridge and set him down.

Jacob let an indignant squeak escape before Varel shushed him. "You did want to get on a boat, did you not? I'll show you how to board one properly someday." He hoped the boy was not prone to seasickness.

A dim light outlined a curtain that had been drawn across the entrance into the tiny cabin of the barge, revealing a tiny lantern when someone lifted it up and said in a low voice, "Git in here, quick. 'Tis a cold night."

Pushing Jacob ahead of him, Varel dropped off their bedrolls outside, and ducked down into the cabin. It was tiny, cramped, and held an unfortunate odor of fish, but at least it was warm, which was all that mattered.

His contact, Ker, was sitting on a cushion, stirring the embers to life in a tiny, square-shaped stove before covering it and making sure it was secure so that it could not spill its dangerous contents. Tims was already putting a loaf of dark bread in a shallow wicker basket with one hand, salt held ready in the other. The sight put Varel at ease; it meant the boatman still considered him an ally, even if their initial meeting had been conducted somewhat under duress. He sat down on another cushion, and coaxed Jacob onto another.

Reminded of his own part, Jacob pulled out a loaf of his own, squashed and misshapen after their journey, but still accepted, as was the pinch of salt taken from a little rag pouch. As the host, Ker cut the loaves into equal portions with a little flint dagger, then it was Varel's turn as the guest to sprinkle salt on the pieces and distribute them. The first was from Jacob's contribution, given to Ker, then the boatman's dark bread for Varel, and the last two were given in the same fashion to the boys.

Ritual complete, Ker sank back onto his cushion after taking a bite of the bread, though he still looked tense. A large, muscular man who seemed to take up a third of the space, tanned from working in all sorts of weather, dark hair bleached by the sun, he resembled an irritable bear in his fur-lined leathers. "Ye come ta us inna bad time, Varel."

Varel pulled down his scarf and hood, and ate a mouthful before speaking. "You seem to have done well enough," he said, with a gesture at the lantern and charcoal-fueled ceramic stove. Simple though they were, only the most prosperous of the boatmen could afford such luxuries; others made do with smelly fish-oil lamps for both light and heat.

Instead of being flattered, the other man scowled. "Aye, and 'tis all from good, honest work, mind, not like some. I'll not deny t' wretched Blight business in t' south hasn't done right by us, but 'tis one thing ta give weight-for-weight and measure-for-measure, and another ta rob blind them what already has nothin'."

"Them's as takes don't mind when they has nothin'," Tims muttered. "Bad men."

Ker sighed when Varel looked to him for clarification. "T' boy has t' right of it. Not seen it meself, but them cousins as bring supplies ta t' big cargo ships in t' harbor and t' warehouses say they hears things. And sees things. Things what they don't like."

Varel's brows rose; Ker's cousins were every bit as tough and strong as he was, and it was hard to imagine what could have put them off. "What could possibly spook them so?"

The other man was oddly reluctant to answer, but finally said, "They think 'tis slavers."

There was a sharp indrawn breath beside Varel that echoed his own shock. Slavers! In Ferelden! He leaned forward. "That is a serious accusation."

"'Tain't no _accusation_ ," the other man snapped. "'Tis only their guess."

Varel gave Ker a level look. "If Queen Anora declared the sun rose in the east, and your cousins told you it rose in the west, whom would you believe?"

Ker deflated a little. "Me cousins," he mumbled, and ran a hand through his hair. "But so what? What kin t' likes of us do 'bout it, eh? Eh? 'Tis over our heads!"

"That, in part, is why I am here, and why I asked for this meeting," Varel said. "Though I must admit I did not expect to find anything quite so soon. And certainly not slavers. I knew something was wrong, but not what."

"'Tis a bad business," Ker muttered, and worked his mouth as if he wanted to spit. Instead, he pulled out a skin and raised his brows; Varel and Jacob took out their wooden traveler's cups, and the boatman poured each of them a generous measure of what turned out to be watered wine. After emptying his own in a single gulp, he said again, "'Tain't right."

Varel took a more measured sip of his drink; it had been left near the stove, and despite the rough vintage, he appreciated its warmth. "If whoever it is believes they can get slaves here, it is only a small step to thinking they can snatch just anyone right off the streets."

"Rumor is, them's already have." Ker reached over and pulled Tims's hood down over his eyes. "We keep t' children close. Or we try," he added with a rueful smile.

Tims made a disgusted face and tried to lean out of his father's reach as he pushed his hood back. "Da!" His eyes went to Jacob, no doubt expecting mockery, but subsided in confusion when he saw only the other boy's wistful longing.

Ker's laughter filled the tiny cabin, then he sobered. "'Tis nothin' ta laugh at. Even that greedy rat of a dwarf Bartholomew keeps his girls in, after he lost a few."

Since his mother had taught him to say nothing when he had nothing good to say, Varel stayed silent when it came to the dwarf. Bartholomew's poor girls were another matter. "To what?"

The other man's broad shoulders rose in a shrug. "Dunno. Went off with t' customers and never come back. Heard t' dwarf's pissed as anythin' 'bout it. Screamed up and down ta anyone in t' tavern who'd listen 'bout t' -" here he imitated the dwarf's shrill voice "- 'ungrateful wenches'."

It was unlikely that the girls would run away now, in the middle of winter, when they had put up with the dwarf's abuse all this time. Varel suspected something more sinister had befallen them, and sighed. The generous sennight he had allotted to himself for this investigation seemed to shrink right before his eyes to something quite inadequate for the job.

"I can only stay in the city for a sennight before I must return to my duties at the Vigil, and I have already used up one of them traveling here," Varel said.

"Ye wanna git close nuff to see if 'tis true," Ker said, shooting Varel a keen glance as he refilled his cup.

Slavery, here, in Amaranthine! It was unthinkable. And perhaps that was why they - whoever they were - thought they could get away with it.

"I want to get close enough to see who it is, put a stop to this filthy business, and bring those responsible to justice," Varel said in his mildest tones, even as rage roiled in his gut and bile burned in the back of his throat. The depth of his own anger surprised him.

The other man's thick brows rose; he was not fooled. "Ye think ye kin?"

"Perhaps not in a sennight. But I can at least make a start of it, yes." Varel saw the uncertainty and worry lurking in the other man's eyes, and thought he understood it. "Is it the bann?"

Ker shifted on his cushion, uneasy. "Aye. She's a narsty ol' bitch. T'others, they think she's got more'n few claws in this mucky pie."

Varel leaned back, hearing Lowan's and Rullens's warnings in what the boatman left unsaid. It was more than a possibility that Bann Esmerelle did have a stake in this disgusting trade in flesh, or that she had been bribed to turn a blind eye to it.

Commerce had become the lifeblood of the city since the Orlesians first occupied it; after the Orlesians had sacked Amaranthine, the bann had not only rebuilt, he had also expanded both the docks and the walls. Bann Esmerelle was the latest ruler, but she might well be the most capable - and most ruthless - to hold that office, and was not to be underestimated. Tied as they were to the docks, even the boatmen trod with care around her.

"Not even she is above the law," Varel said. "Arl Howe thought he was, and now he is permanently shorter by a head."

Ker snorted. "She be a canny one, her. Ye'll find nothin' but her middlemen."

"We'll see," Varel said, though privately he thought Ker was right, blast it all. Bann Esmerelle had not survived all these years by being stupid enough to leave any evidence of her crimes. Instead of dwelling on the futility, he said, "Now, I will need to speak to your cousins, the ones who transport goods to the ships and warehouses."

Ker frowned. "'Tis a busy time, with t' trade startin' back up after t' Blight. Dunno when they kin meet with ye."

"I have a better idea," Varel said. "If, as you say, they're very busy, then I can work with them on their boat. I need a place to stay, in any case, and it will look suspicious if I am idling about in the refugee camp when I clearly have no means of support."

Ker gave him a dubious look. "'Tis hard work, workin' a boat, and I knows ye ain't never been 'prenticed. Takes years ta knows t' trade prop'ly."

This gave Varel pause, because it was true: it took years to learn the currents and tides, how to move safely aboard a barge, and even memorizing the whistles they used, both to identify themselves and their position to others in night work. Still, he was not without skill when it came to maneuvering aboard a ship of any size, which could not be said of Rullens or any of the soldiers.

Varel opened his hand in a gesture of agreement. "Granted, but I'm not looking to be hired on as a boat hand. Surely we can keep up a convincing pretense for the few days I'm here?"

"Well, kin ye? I heard t'old arl, may he burn in t' Void forever and aye, had ye whipped. Ye be well nuff for it?"

Varel's smile held more than a hint of rue as he recalled all the exercises and training sessions the armsmaster had put him through, not to mention forcing him to wear his armor at all times. Aware of Tims's wide-eyed gaze at this news, he made an effort to keep his tone casual. "I have not spent all my time pushing pieces of parchment about on my desk. Right, Jacob?"

Jacob grinned at him and nodded, having seen the armsmaster order him about like one of her raw recruits, with none of the deference usually accorded to his ancient and honorable post.

Ker still looked skeptical. "Ye ever even worked onna boat before?"

"I have, though not on a barge. Before the rebellion, I worked on my uncle's fishing boat for a couple of summers when I was a boy, and one of the merchant ships from the Free Marches once."

The skepticism on the boatman's face deepened. "T' rebellion was thirty years ago."

"I can't deny that," Varel said. "Give me a try; if it does not work out, then we can work out something else."

Ker rubbed his chin. "Mind, we'd work ye harder than them northern pansies. If ye think yer up to it..."

"So you are agreed, then."

"Aye, makes sense," Ker said. "Hide in plain sight, eh? And me cousins kin take ye anywhere t' boat kin go. After all t' work's done, mind." He glanced at Jacob. "And t' boy?"

"He can run errands," Varel said, and caught sight of the boy's dismay. "For which he will be paid, of course," he added, and smiled when Jacob brightened up at that. "If you're worried about Tims's safety on the streets, perhaps Jacob can accompany him and keep him out of trouble."

Tims's lip curled in scorn at the notion that he would need any help at all, much less that of a landsman, but his father looked thoughtful. "Aye, 'tis true I've worried, and now his brother's married, there's naught to keep an eye on t' scamp."

"Da!" Tims said. "I don't need no one ta -"

"Nuff!" The word came out in a low growl; even the irrepressible Tims was silenced. "Ye can take Jacob with ye tomorrow, when ye go out." He turned his attention to Varel. "Where be ye stayin'? Tims can go and fetch t' lad before his work starts."

"I still have yet to arrange for lodgings for myself and Jacob. I suppose we could go back to the refugees -"

Varel was startled when Ker clapped his hands together, interrupting him, and grinned. "'Tis late; ye'll likely not find nothin' ye can afford, leastways if ye still wanna play t' poor refugee. I've a better idea - stay with me cousins. Me oldest moved outta their place when he married, so's they has t' room. T' boy kin stay there, too, and 'tisn't far for Tims ta go."

"As I said, I can only stay for a sennight," Varel said, but Ker interrupted him again with an impatient wave.

"'Tis easy for ye, easy for me cousins, easy for me son. Ye think ye can find better? Ye've t' boy ta think of." Ker nodded at Jacob, who was trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

"Very well, then. Thank you," Varel said after some thought. "And how much will this cost?"

Ker fixed him with a glare. "Nothin'. Ye'll pay room and board outta yer earnin's. Ain't much, but it'll be nuff. If ye don't fall - or get knocked - overboard."

Varel was surprised. "You are certain you want nothing for the information?"

"Well," Ker said, drawling the word as he tapped the side of his nose. "Be obliged if ye should happen ta let t' tunnels slip yer mind."

"As long as hiding such information does not harm anyone in my charge, I think I can promise that." Varel was reasonably certain he could 'discover' the existence of the tunnels from other sources if he ever had to acknowledge them. "What else?"

"If ye kin do somethin' 'bout this, that be payment nuff." Ker's voice was gruff. "T' Lady Andraste, she were a slave, and she fought t' Tevinter magisters ta free us all. 'Tain't right."

"As you say," Varel said, conceding the matter. "Well, how do I find your cousins' home?"

"Ye stay here, I'll take ye. Don't make t' boy walk in t' cold and dark," the other man said, rising from his cushion.

Before Varel could speak, Ker was already squeezing past, taking the lantern with him and leaving the curtain flapping in the wake of his exit. There was a thump when the boatman raised the anchor, then a sense of subtle motion a moment later as Ker poled his vessel into the current.

Jacob had nodded off; weariness, the watered wine, and the lateness of the hour had combined to usher him into sleep. Tims had started yawning when Jacob did, and was now curled up in a corner; Varel covered Tims with the cloak Ker had left behind.

Varel leaned out of the cabin to retrieve the bedrolls he had left at the door earlier. The motion of the barge and the rhythmic sounds of the pole sweeping them along were soothing, lulling him into a doze. Every so often Ker would whistle, to be answered in the same manner. A gentle bump jarred him awake.

The curtain was pushed to one side, then Ker said, "'Tis black as t' bann's heart and colder nor her tits out here. Best if ye gimme t' boy."

Varel stretched the stiffness out of his limbs as best he could in the cramped cabin, then stepped out before reaching in to pick Jacob up; the boy hardly stirred. It was just as described outside, and he shivered when the wind flayed away what warmth still clung to him from the stove inside. Ker was already ashore, reaching out for Jacob; as the other man took the boy, Varel looked around, but it was too dark to make out any details, but from the smell and the sounds of water, they were close to the docks. By the light of Ker's lantern, he could see that Ker had tied up next to another barge, in front of what looked like a two-story converted warehouse.

Once Varel had gathered their belongings together, slung their bedrolls over his shoulder, and stepped ashore, he was handed Jacob back, leaving Ker free to knock on the door. When there was no response, Ker hammered on the wood with his fist, until a small, flickering circle of light flared, revealing the square outline of a shuttered window. A few moments later, Varel heard the door being unbarred, then it was opened, revealing a large, disheveled man who bore a passing resemblance to Ker.

Squinting through bleary eyes as he held up a rushlight, the man grumbled, "Andraste's tits, Ker, what time o' night d'ye call this? An' who's he? Them?"

"This be Varel, and t' boy there be Jacob. Varel be yer new boat hand, Wren; anythin' else he'll tell ye in t' mornin'," Ker said. Varel's brows rose at the man's name; it fit the tall, muscular fellow about as well as feathers did on a fish.

"New boat hand?" Wren looked nonplussed. "What? But, but, Ker! Agh!" He yawned and rubbed his face with his free hand. "Yanno what? I'm too sleepy ta care. One of ye can explain in t' morning. If it be a good story, I might not throw ye inta t' sea."

Unperturbed by the threat, Ker bid them good night, and headed back to his boat. Still yawning, Wren beckoned Varel inside and closed the door. The rushlight was feeble, but showed a single windowless, narrow room. At one end was a bed where someone was snoring, with a fireplace, crude trestle table, and a bench at the other. Bundles of what Varel assumed were sacks of food hung from the exposed rafters to deter vermin. In the corner was a barrel, cut in half, and Varel thought he saw a pipe in the wall, but the flickering illumination cast shadows that danced and obscured ordinary objects in mystery.

In between more yawns, Wren pointed out the niche under the stairs as the privy, then led Varel up narrow steps to a tiny room on the second floor, perhaps half the size of the one below. The other man mumbled something unintelligible when Varel thanked him, but given the way the boatman's eyes were drooping, Varel was not sure he had heard or understood a word. Wren did have enough presence of mind to leave the rushlight with his new guests, mumbling something about knowing his way around in the dark and asleep.

The sputtering rushlight hid more than it revealed, but there was little enough in the bare room: there was only a straw pallet laid on a couple of planks, with a padded log for a pillow and a much-mended but thick quilt left folded at the foot.

Varel set the rushlight in a holder mounted in a wooden block he found nailed to the wall next to the bed, then eased Jacob onto the mattress without waking him, though he suspected not even a new Orlesian invasion would wake him. He pulled the boy's boots off, tucked him in, and added both of their own blankets on top. Then it was his turn to remove his own boots, blow out the rushlight, fall onto the other side of the bed, and slide under the blanket.

Somewhere between making plans to speak to Ker's cousins and investigating which ships they suspected, Varel fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bartholomew the pimp is a character in [Warden's Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRVTl2ii8BM), a mini-series produced by Machinima, set before Dragon Age: Awakening.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel works for his keep, and gets just a little bit further along on his investigation.

All who worked on the sea or in related trades belonged to a sort of unofficial fellowship. Wren and Raven - whose mother had apparently liked birds - had accepted Varel into that fellowship on a tentative basis. It was enough that Ker had vouched for him, even if he was a stranger and not part of their city-spanning extended family. It did not stop them from cursing him when he was too slow loading or offloading cargo, but at least he knew how to balance in a boat, man an oar, and not get in their way.

In truth, Varel did not mind the cursing; there was a rhythm to the work, and it had taken him some time to get used to it. Besides, the boatmen really were rather inventive with their invective, and he had collected some of the more amusing of their colorful phrases.

They also did not trust him not to damage the merchandise with the hooks they used, so he was given the task of hauling any smaller crates, while they cooperated in slinging the larger ones with an ease he could only envy. The boat always rode low in the water by the time the brothers decided they had loaded on enough.

The two boatmen were only one of many family groups who primarily worked transport for the big, multi-rig cargo vessels in the harbor, and it was hard work; they took turns handling the goods and manning the sweeps as their barge sailed from the warehouses to the ships and back. Varel had cause to thank Sandis for her relentlessness in getting him back into fighting trim, and even for his time in the silverite mine, for he could not have kept pace with the other two men otherwise.

They were on their way back from delivering cargo to a beached cog, letting the sea currents do most of their work for them, when Raven said, "Lookee there." He jerked his head towards a warehouse to the starboard side, but kept his face averted.

Varel did not stare, but glanced at them as he handled his sweep. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about the long, low wooden buildings - until he saw the sentries. That in itself was nothing unusual; ships needed to stow their cargo somewhere, and while it was only sense to hire guards to thwart thievery, this was the first time he had ever seen any posted on the roofs.

Guards, wrapped up in cloaks, were perched on the sole two-story warehouse in the middle of the huddle of buildings, and he caught a glimpse of armor when one adjusted the hang of his weapons. They were rather well armed and armored for their duty; only those attached to goldsmiths, gem merchants, and nobles wore such fine gear. It was clear to Varel that whoever was paying those men was not poor.

"I heard tell they rented t'other warehouses 'round theirs, too, but when other boat hands tried ta find work there, they was turned away." Wren spat into the water. "Ain't never seen 'em bring cargo, in or out, neither. Keep themselves ta themselves."

Wren was referring to the men who had no boats of their own, who were usually hired by those who did. They were needed during the busy season, but went idle unless they could find other employment. If someone rented not one warehouse, but several, that meant there should have been plenty of work to go around. And if they were not used to store cargo, that begged the question of what they _did_ contain. As boatmen who were familiar with the rhythms of the docks and quays, Wren and Raven had a fine sense of things that were out of place.

"Have you heard aught else?" Varel said as he took another covert look at the warehouses.

"Heard from t' water sellers they always seem ta buy more than they need," Raven said. "Buy 'em in barrels, like they was gonna put 'em onna ship, but then they don't go nowhere."

"Nah, nah," Wren said to his brother. "One night, I saw 'em put some barrels onna boat, sailed it out to a big ship in t' harbor."

Raven made a derisive noise. "Ye said yerself it was at night, so it must've been dark. They could've been movin' anythin'."

"Do you know which ship?" Varel said to Wren.

"Aye, one o' them fancy ships, from Tevinter," Wren said. "Ye can tell from t' dragon prow and t' standard made o' gold - or painted gold - just like in all t'old stories. It was dark, sure, but t' settin' sun lit up t' symbol on t' top mast."

Raven made an admiring whistle. "Oh, yeah, I seen that one. She's a sleek one."

Varel was taken aback. "Tevinter! How many of their ships are here?"

"Just t'one," Raven said. "I mean, ye cain't hardly mistake 'em."

Varel frowned. "Warship or cargo? Could you tell?"

"Oh, cargo, o' course," Wren scoffed. "As if t' Tevinters could spare a warship from their battles. They're still fightin' t' qunari, ain't they? Lucky fer us."

"Indeed." Varel did not like the implications of this new information, assuming Wren was not mistaken. "You can't keep sailors and soldiers cooped up on a ship for that long without risking a mutiny. They must also rotate crews under cover of darkness."

He wondered if a trip to the dockside taverns and brothels would be a fruitful avenue of inquiry. Then he recalled that Ker had mentioned the pimp, Bartholomew, had lost a few of his girls, and got a very bad taste in his mouth.

Raven nodded. "Aye, that must be how they bring in t' food, too."

Wren shrugged. "Dunno where they buy it. Just saw 'em send out t' barrels."

There was little food other than fish and shellfish sold in winter, which they could purchase direct from the fishermen - especially if they bought from a different one each day - and they might well have brought provisions with them.

Once the current and their sweeps had brought them a safe distance past the warehouses, Varel sighed. "I need proof, not conjecture."

Once, Varel or the captain of the guard could have ordered an official investigation into these suspicious activities - as long as he had the blessing of his liege lord, back when he could still get it. Oh, there would be trouble between the bann and the arl, but that was a matter for the nobles to deal with. Well, now they had neither - not that he was sorry for it, considering he had been due for the hangman's noose.

Raven snorted. "We woulda told t' templars if we did. Ye think t' Chantry'd stand fer somethin' like this?"

Varel did not have the boatmen's faith in the Chantry's moral rectitude; corruption was not unknown amongst the ranks of the religious. The Revered Mother attached to the Vigil's chapel during Arl Howe's tenure had been entirely his creature, and she had done nothing to rein in the worst of his transgressions. She had followed her lord to Denerim like so many of his hangers-on, but Varel did not know whether she had returned to the Chantry, if the Grey Wardens had killed her, or if she had been slain by darkspawn. Not that he particularly cared, though he was not so foolish as to say that to the boatmen's faces.

The presence of a ship from the one nation on Thedas that openly condoned slavery was surely no coincidence, especially when added with the rumors of slavers in Amaranthine. Varel did not think he had ever seen one in Ferelden before, which was not surprising, considering the distance and all the blood the Tevinters had spilled in their attempts to conquer their barbarian ancestors centuries ago.

He entertained a plan to sneak Jacob aboard in a crate for about half a heartbeat before dismissing it for a daft, harebrained scheme. Rullens would have him flogged again just for thinking it, and rightfully so. It was clear the Tevinters were operating with too much caution to trust anyone but their own bringing in cargo, and what they might do to an intruder did not bear thinking on. Even if it could be accomplished, Jacob would not know what to look for.

No, that was too risky a way to go about this, so he considered the Tevinters left on land. They might be able to ambush the Tevinters during one of their crew rotations, but he did not know their schedule, and conducting a night raid against unknown numbers, with unknown capabilities, would be fraught with disaster. The boatmen were tough and strong, but they were no soldiers, even if they were willing to risk themselves.

Despite all the hard work, Varel found himself able to chew over the intractable problem, not that he was able make any progress. Still, he was grateful for the rest when the sun set and it grew too dark for them to continue to work, because his arms felt like they were about to fall off. His legs and feet ached from bracing against the motions of the boat, and he was certain he had blisters on his hands from handling the sweep.

The brothers were old hands at this business, of course, and had timed their last shipment with the precision of long practice; the last of the light was nearly gone by the time the ship's purser handed over the stamped receipt to Wren, and the stars began to appear like shy Chantry sisters in the darkening sky as they headed for the shore.

Varel had been too busy to appreciate the clear, if cold, day, but since they were done, he had time to breathe in the scents on the brisk sea wind, of fish and salt and cookfires. Now that he was no longer working, since Raven and Wren had taken the sweeps, he began to feel the chill in the air, even though he wore the oldest, much-mended tunics the brothers had been willing to donate on top of the ones he already had on.

He wondered if he looked strange to the others they had encountered in the course of business, if they thought he was a particularly poor relation, with his worn clothes and pale feet. It was unwise to wear boots on wet, slippery wooden boards, and so they all went barefoot, even in the heart of winter.

His empty stomach clenched in on itself, and he thought with longing of a good, hot meal. Having to make the most of the short daylight hours meant they had only had time to snatch quick bites, in between having to wait for the clerks at the warehouses and ships to tally their cargo. They made up for it by having large breakfasts and suppers, but between them stretched a long time with little in the way of food.

Ker was waiting for them in his boat, and with him was Jacob. Varel smiled and gripped Jacob's shoulder when the lad bounded over to him, glad to see the grief he had been carrying since his parents died had lifted for the moment. The boy's eyes sparkled in the dim light of Ker's lantern, and though his cheeks were red with cold and exertion, they were stretched wide with a grin. He handed Varel his boots and socks.

"And have you kept out of trouble, lad?" Varel said as he stepped onto Ker's boat and sat down on the deck to pull on his socks.

Wren left to secure their barge next to a long line of others, while Raven turned in the last receipt. Varel noticed with approval that the boy was now proficient at boarding the rocking, swaying vessel.

Ker chuckled as he untethered his boat. "Are boys that age ever outta trouble?"

"I wasn't in any trouble!" Jacob protested with a vehemence that had the two men smiling. "I was running messages with Tims."

Wren and Raven returned, now wearing socks and pattens, in time to hear this. "Tims? That boy _is_ trouble," Raven said, shooting Ker a teasing glance as he came aboard.

Had anyone else said that, they would have received a huge fist to their face for their trouble, but as it was family, Ker only said in a placid tone, "T' boy's just too smart fer his britches. He'll settle when he's older. Ye'll unnerstand when ye've boys of yer own."

"Tims isn't trouble! He taught me a lot!" Jacob said, quick to defend his new friend.

"There, ye see?" Ker said, and slapped Jacob's back so hard the boy nearly flew overboard.

Wren looked about. "Where _is_ t' boy, anyways?"

"Home with his mama," Ker said as he began to pole the boat forward. "T' wife wants to keep t' boy close after we come in so late last evenin'."

"Hah! That boy'll find trouble wherever he is," Raven said. "If he cain't find some, he'll make some."

"So how many pots did yer wife throw at ye?" Wren said with a grin.

Ker did not raise to the bait, and said with remarkable serenity, "Just two, and she missed both times. It's not like I came home drunk, ye know."

Varel smiled when the brothers chuckled at Ker's answer, and leaned against the side of the cabin as he pulled on his boots and thought over the observations he had made over the course of the day. Drumming his fingers on the smooth wooden boards, he decided that what he needed was more information - and proof, though only the Maker knew how he was supposed to obtain it.

Perhaps feeling shy in the intimidating presence of the two large brothers, Jacob came and plopped himself down next to Varel.

"How was your day?" Varel said as the boy huddled up against his side for warmth. He wished for his cloak, thick and weatherproof and lined with fur, but humble as it was compared to some, it was still much too extravagent to fit with his disguise of down-on-his-luck refugee.

Jacob turned shining eyes up to Varel. "Tims took me 'round to the Dwarven Merchants' Guild and the other merchant houses to run errands. Mostly messages, 'cause I can read _and_ figure. I've never seen so many dwarves, all packed together in one place! And it was so noisy! All those counting boards sounded like someone spilling dried beans onto the floor."

The boy chattered on about all the new things he had seen and done, and Varel let him, though he paid more attention than he usually would have, in case Jacob had heard anything about the slavers. He was a little disappointed, but unsurprised, when there was nothing. After what he had learned from Ker's cousins, he decided he had better pass on a warning.

"You are not to accept any jobs that would take you down to the docks, no matter how well it pays. Understood?" Jacob's eyes went wide at the sudden sternness in Varel's tone. He waited for Jacob to give him a nod. "Remember, you are not to mention anything you heard me discussing with Ker or the other boatmen to anyone. Keep your mouth shut and your ears open."

Jacob ducked his head again and said a daunted, "Yes, ser." He hesitated. "Can I still talk to Tims?"

"Not where someone might overhear you, though his cousins' house should be safe enough. Ker's boat is safe, too, but sound can travel over water for a good distance, so only if you speak softly. If you do happen to hear something interesting, tell me when I come back in."

The boy looked surprised that Varel might find anything he had to say important, but said another, "Yes, ser."

Warning delivered, Varel relaxed and said, "Well, enough said about that. Were you well compensated for your work? No one tried to cheat you, I hope."

He made much of the boy when Jacob shyly showed him the small pouch of coins he had collected for the day's efforts.

"Put that somewhere safe, don't carry it around with you," Varel said. "There are any number of ruffians who would not hesitate to shake down a boy like you for a few bits if they thought you had any."

The boy considered this. "But you carry your money around."

"Yes, but I don't look like an easy target, and neither do I look like I have two bits to rub together."

"Oh. That's true." Jacob's forehead wrinkled in thought. "I dunno where I can put it. Under the mattress?"

"That would be the first place anyone would look. The perfect hiding place would be either in plain sight, or somewhere no one would think to search."

Jacob's face screwed up in thought, then he shook his head. "Plain sight? Like, uh, secret compartments? It would be wrong to mess with someone else's house."

"Something like that, but the simpler, the better. You are certain you can't think of a place?" The boy shook his head. "Hide it in the privy," Varel said, and chuckled at the boy's disgusted expression.

"Ew!"

"You must admit, no one would think to look for valuables _there_. It would be an easy enough matter to hide a pouch in the corner of the box that holds the seat. It is usually dark, and whoever empties it does so quickly, for obvious reasons. They would not linger to inspect it for valuables."

The revulsion on Jacob's face faded into thoughtfulness. "Won't it smell?"

"'Money does not stink', a Tevinter archon once said, so it won't. You might want to wash or get rid of the pouch, after."

The noises of a city hunkering down for the night reached Varel's ears as Jacob subsided into silence. There was raucous laughter and muted conversation as doors to rough dockside taverns opened, the steady thumps of tide mills, the shouts of the boatmen as they called to one another, and the barking of dogs. Above and below it all ran the omnipresent sound of water, lapping against boats and piers.

It was a great relief to get in out of the cold once they reached the brothers' converted warehouse home, even if it was dark as pitch inside, and chilly since there was nothing but ashes in the hearth. Raven lit a taper from Ker's lantern and went to start a fire, while Wren pulled out a pitcher of ale and filled everyone's cups. Ker hauled in a huge basket from his boat that contained several loaves of bread and a clay crock of fish pottage, kept warm with hot stones on the bottom. After breaking the skin of ice in the half-barrel, Varel filled a basin with water for everyone to wash their hands.

They huddled around the fire for light and heat, with Varel and Jacob sitting on the hearthstone, as they could not all fit on the single bench. It mattered not to Varel; comfort took a distant second place to warmth. None of them were willing to talk business until the edge of their hunger had been blunted, with breath to spare for speech.

Jacob had slumped against Varel's side, lulled by the warmth and a full belly after a long day of running errands in the cold. Since the boy kept yawning into his empty bowl, Varel took pity on him and sent him off to bed, leaving the adults to talk in private.

"Well, yer no useless landsman," Raven said with grudging approval, raising his mug of beer to Varel. He turned to his cousin. "Didn't say nothin' ta ye, Ker, but I had me doubts about him."

"Aye, well, nothin' I ain't thunk of before," Ker said, shooting Varel a sidelong glance. "Ye was workin' when he came down with all them soldiers, so ye wasn't ta know."

Wren directed a belligerent frown at Varel in belated memory. "We heard somethin' after t' fact. We woulda come if ye called."

The older, more experienced Ker snorted. "Mark me words, boys: anyone who came prepared fer a fight and smart nuff not ta start one, who came ta talk first instead, is someone worth listenin' ta."

And perhaps even befriend? Varel hoped so, though it was too soon to say. The boatmen, he was sure, could prove to be stout and loyal allies. They would certainly make for bad enemies.

The brothers blinked at their elder's reproof and stared at Varel, as if hard put to reconcile this shabby stranger who had borne up without complaint under their curses with a man who could command soldiers. Varel exchanged an amused glance with Ker.

In between bites of a second helping of the surprisingly tasty pottage, Varel discussed with Ker what the brothers had shown him, his own conclusions, and his absolute need for solid, unambiguous evidence.

Ker scratched his chin and looked thoughtful. "Didja bring any money with ye? Sovereigns?"

"No, just a handful of bits, in case I had to loosen any tongues. Why do you ask?" Varel said. He did not mention he also had a few silvers, though he did not really think the boatmen, proud as they were, would try to rob him. Too many years spent working with - and then against - the arl had taught him caution.

"I heard tell there be a man here what sells information, if ye kin pay fer it," Ker said. "Calls himself t' Dark Wolf."

"Aye? Wunner if it's t' same Dark Wolf what robbed all them nobles in Denerim," Wren said, and grinned at the misfortunes of those who thought too highly of themselves.

Raven snickered. "Aye, these days, all them hoity-toity types are clutchin' their money pouches n' fancy gems n' rings n' such closer nor their children."

Varel raised his brows. "What all have you heard?"

He was treated to quite frankly improbable tales, of a sword that had been stolen right out of a knight's scabbard while she was _wearing it_ , and everything in a silversmith's stall in Denerim's bazaar had been cleaned out - in broad daylight. Various other unfortunates had also lost their expensive possessions to this master thief, all of them with some connection to the nobility. Not even the most powerful in the land had been immune; the Dark Wolf had had the audacity to steal from both Teyrn Loghain _and_ Arl Howe.

Varel had to rub a grin of his own off his face, hearing that last. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when they discovered the theft!

"They say Bann Franderel set a trap in his estate fer t' Dark Wolf, but he went in and out like a ghost, and stole everythin' not nailed down right under t' noses of all his guards and mages. _Twice_ ," Raven said with relish. "T' bann's been t' laughingstock of Denerim ever since."

Varel must have worn a skeptical look over the amusement on his face, because Ker said, "'Tis all true, hand to t' Maker. Me wife's second cousin what works as a server in t' Gnawed Noble Tavern in Denerim told me."

Opening his hand in an I'm-not-going-to-argue gesture, Varel said, "Even if everything said about the Dark Wolf is true - which, no offense, I doubt - I don't think I can afford his services."

Ker shrugged. "Well, no skin off me nose. If ye change yer mind, I heard he's somewheres in t' foreign quarter, after he had to git outta Denerim quick as quick, one step ahead of t' royal guards."

Their mirth faded, and they subsided into silence, broken only by the sounds of munching as they scraped up the last of the pottage with their bread. Varel was too busy thinking to notice when Raven left, and the others began to wash up at the basin, so he was startled when Raven banged back in.

"Wren, 'twas yer turn ta clean out t' privy!" Raven said, shooting an exasperated glower at his brother.

"Naw, 'twas yers!" Wren said in hot denial. "I cleaned it last time!"

"'Twas I, ye fool!"

Varel was about to ignore their brotherly bickering - as he had many times while working on their boat - and return to his cogitations when his eyes widened. Could it really be that simple? Not a solution, but a lead, a place to start, as making contact with the boatmen had been a start.

Ker rolled his eyes as he packed the pot back into the basket, but Varel interrupted the elder boatman's scold. "Ker, who works the night soil collection in the city? I only know that one particular family of your innumerable relations handles it, because we hired their services for the Vigil, but not which."

Though bemused by the abrupt change in subject, Ker answered readily enough. "That'd be Derran's - nah, wait, he died in t' war - Derran's daughter, Ulla. Why?"

"I need to talk to her, first, but my thought is that the night soil collectors must have access to the harbormaster's office, and the merchant houses, and even the warehouses."

Ker stared at Varel with dawning surmise. "And ye think ye kin git in that way?"

"Even I had forgotten, until this moment. Think of how invisible they are, ignored by all as they carry out their duties in the night." Varel raised an eyebrow at the brothers, who had stopped arguing in favor of listening; they reddened when they realized they had made fools of themselves in front of both their elder and a guest. "Well, at least until your privy needs emptying."

"If ye kin git past locked doors," Ker said with a skeptical grimace. "T' collectors don't go inside."

"I know, but there is no harm in doing some scouting."

"Ye dunno Ulla. Eh, boys?" Ker said to the younger men, who returned vigorous nods. "She's not one ta suffer fools gladly, and she'll put ye straight ta work just like me cousins did."

Varel nodded. "I expected as much, and of course I will want to work for my keep."

Ker stared. " _Ye_ want ta - but, but 'tis hard, smelly work -"

Varel declined to tell the boatmen the arl had forced him to worse humiliations than the honest - if pungent - work of night soil collection. "I'm a commoner, like you, and I have never been afraid to get my hands dirty."

Raven barked a laugh. "Ye'd best be prepared ta git more'n just yer hands dirty."

"Indeed." Varel turned to Ker. "Do you think it would be possible for me to meet her tonight?"

Ker cocked his head, expression turned inward as he consulted some inner time sense. "Nah, 'tis too late. She'll be gettin' ready ta start t' collectin' soon, and she won't thank me fer interruptin' her work just ta chat. Tamorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pecunia non olet_ ("money does not stink") is attributed to the Roman emperor Vespasian (69 -79 AD). There was also a Tevinter Archon named Vespasian. Coincidence? I think not.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel pays a whore for something other than her usual services.

The next day at dawn, Jacob went off with Tims again, leaving Varel alone to muffle his groans into the padded log that served as a pillow when various muscles protested the vigorous work he had done the previous day. After he got over wishing for death, he managed to drag himself out of bed, forcing himself to do the same exercises and stretches the armsmaster had every soldier perform before weapons practice. When he was done, he felt human again, rather than something the night soil collectors would take away.

After a wash with cold rainwater in the half-barrel in the kitchen, he joined the brothers at their morning meal. Then it was time for them to make their way through the brightening dawn to where their barge was moored, and begin the day's work.

At midday, however, as they once again allowed the current to carry their barge along, Wren and Raven advised him to go back to their home before nightfall to rest. Their boat, unlike Ker's, had no cabin.

"If ye really are set on goin' out with Ulla's collectors, ye'll want ta git some shuteye," Wren said over Varel's protests. "Yer lucky 'tis winter - t' cold'll keep t' stink down."

"Aye, ye wouldn't want any accidents, eh?" Raven said with a commiserating grin.

Varel shook his head. "Nor be the cause of any, no, though I would like to talk to her first, if she would be willing to spare the time. But what about the rest of these deliveries?" He jerked his chin at the pile of cargo that had the boat riding low in the water, as usual.

Raven waved one large, callused hand. "We'll carry on like we have before ye came, just like we'll carry on long after yer gone. 'Tis winter, not that much ta do, really. Come spring, we have ta work like mad golems."

"I'll admit t' work's been easier with yer help," Wren said. He turned to his brother. "We'll have ta see 'bout findin' a prentice when spring come, Raven."

"'Tis somethin' we'll have ta think on, aye."

The brothers poled their barge to a pier nearby and dropped Varel off. He remembered just in time to walk like a boatman and not a soldier, and tromped the ground like Ker did, as if his legs were still used to the motions of the water and mistrusted such solidity.

He pulled his hood down low as he passed porters and dockworkers, but he saw others sitting idle, huddled in places out of the wind, which was normal for winter. No doubt more were sheltering in the nearby taverns. He could not help but wonder if the slavers would find such people easy prey; strong workers would fetch a good price. The thought was sickening.

Unused to the boatmen's lack of a noon meal, Varel entered a tavern his uncle favored years ago. The place seemed little changed; the trestle tables and benches were crude and worn smooth with hard use where they were not scarred, but the floor was clean, it was warm, and nothing smelled stale or rotten. There were only a few customers inside, allowing him to pick a seat in a corner near the fire, where he could watch both the door and the room. The delicious scent of fish stew, the tavern's specialty, set his stomach grumbling.

It was difficult to drag himself away from the warm tavern, but he braced himself against the cold and started out once more for the boatmen's lodgings. With his head down, his nose buried in his scarf, and his eyes narrowed against the icy wind, he saw little but the ground and only enough of his surroundings not to bump into anyone, so he nearly passed the whores calling blandishments through their chattering teeth.

He glanced up to see two elf women on a street corner, trying their poor best to keep warm while also looking seductive in their thin clothes, an attempt undermined by their shivering. They were not having much luck attracting business, perhaps because the cold was not conducive to amorous activities performed out in the open.

Remembering what Ker had told him of the disappearances, Varel approached the women, who immediately turned towards him and smiled. They were short and slight, and the top of their heads only came up to his shoulder. He felt like a huge, clumsy lout beside them.

"Are you Bartholomew's girls?"

Identical scowls flickered across their thin faces as they nodded. "Aye, we're with the stingy short-arse," said the dark-haired one. "Dunno why."

"It's winter, and no one's got any work for us," the other elf said in a resigned voice.

"Aye, right, that'd be why."

Varel lowered his voice. "Is it true that some of you have gone missing?"

They grew wary, and edged back. "Why're you asking? You're no watchman. Did the constable send you?"

The dark-haired elf snorted. "As if the shems care."

"I care," Varel said. They looked skeptical, with good reason. Over their heads, he spotted their pimp approaching, a suspicious look on his sour face. "Bartholomew is coming. Let us decide on your pay for the information, rather than your, er, usual services."

The dark-haired elf seemed the bolder of the two, and as she haggled with him over the price, Varel saw Bartholomew turning away out of the corner of his eye.

"Where do you usually conduct your business?"

The elf jerked her head at a shadow-filled alley. "Over there. The short-arse don't like us to go out of his sight no more."

"Then let us go there, and you can tell me what happened to the others."

They went over to the alley, a tiny space between and beneath where a chandler's shop and a sailmaker's leaned like companionable drunkards against each other. It had the same stink and ubiquitous piles of dog droppings of all such places, but it was at least somewhat less pervasive in the cold, and the buildings sheltered them from the wind. Varel still would not touch the strange, discolored patches of ice on the walls for a large bag of gold.

"It would look less suspicious if you pretended to, er..." Varel felt more pity than lust for the poor girl, and did not think he could be quite _that_ convincing. Embarrassed, he made a suggestive gesture he hoped she could decipher.

She interpreted them correctly; her lips curled into an amused smirk as she shrugged. "Whatever you like; you're paying for it." She stuck her hand out, and he made a show of carefully counting out the worn copper bits before he gave them to her, just as any poor boatman would.

"What can you tell me about the girls who disappeared?"

"Ain't much to tell," the girl said as she crouched down between his legs. "Ain't much to tell; ain't like I saw it happen. They just... vanished." She scowled. "But I don't care what that short-arse says, they wasn't the type to run off. Lirren's got a sick da to take care of, Bryn was saving up for the cloth to do her wedding clothes, and Nalora's got a mountain of debts to pay."

"When did you last see them?"

"A month ago - no, two months ago," she said. "We leave and go back to the alienage together. One night Lirren didn't come back, then Nalora never showed back up three nights later. We was careful after that, but then Bryn was gone. The short-arse rounded us all up after that, so's he could keep an eye on us."

"Did you see who last spoke to them?"

"Nah, we worked alone before. Less competition." The elf sighed. "I staked out a good spot down by the dock taverns. Got a bit of work in the warm when they needed more hands. Some other tart or beggar's moved in by now, I'm sure."

He was not unsympathetic, but he returned to the topic before she could warm to her subject. "Bartholomew did not bother to search any further?"

The elf made a face. "He kicked up a fuss, all right, but who'd help him? Who'd _want_ to help him? He's the stingiest, nastiest dwarf in Ferelden!"

She had a point, Varel had to admit. "Well... did they have any jealous lovers?"

She made a sound between a snort and a derisive laugh. "What, like in the tales? Nah."

"Something - someone - with a more sinister agenda?"

"Dunno. Their bodies haven't turned up," the elf said in a matter-of-fact tone that was appalling. "Heard shems was going missing, too, but ain't heard of anyone finding their bodies, neither."

This was not proving to be as helpful as he had thought, though it was good to have confirmation of Ker's tales from an independent source. Having a specific number and names was also useful, or so he tried to convince himself. 

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" he said without much hope.

She shook her head. "Can't really think of anything. The short-arse complained to the constable, of course, 'cause he's the type to do that. It wasn't like anyone important was missing."

"What did they do?"

"Do? Ha! They didn't really do nothing about it." She sounded bitter, not without reason. "Just asked a few questions, looked where bodies usually get washed up. Didn't find nothing."

That did sound typical. Constable Aidan was a conscientious man, but he took his orders - and pay - from the bann, who was more concerned with defending her domain and getting her proper due than in justice. Besides which, the city guards were not yet back up to strength yet; Ser Cauthrien had drafted them into the levies for the defense of Denerim, and many had not returned.

Varel could not think of anything else to ask, and was about to tell the elf he had no more questions, when he heard the other woman cry out in anger.

The fair-haired elf began berating a man who had approached her in a shrill voice. "You know that short-arse won't let me do nothin' unless you can pay!" The man, who looked familiar, tried to shush her, to no effect.

"Trouble?" Varel murmured to the dark-haired elf.

She looked around at the commotion, but seemed more amused than alarmed. "Oh, it's just the harbormaster's assistant. He's sweet on Perry, always visits once a sennight. He's usually smart enough to bring money."

A small crowd of bored dockworkers were beginning to gather to watch what promised to be free entertainment, forcing the reddening young man to back away. 

"Have you anything further to add?" Varel said to the elf as he kept an eye on which direction the assistant was trudging off to. While this lead had come to naught, it may have presented him with another.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Can't think of nothing more."

He offered her his hand. The elf stared at it in puzzlement, then her face cleared. Bemused, she placed her small hand in his, and he helped her rise. "Thank you for answering my questions."

The courtesy seemed to discomfit her as nothing else had. "Well, sure. You're welcome, I suppose."

Seeing how thin the elf was, Varel weakened. He fished out one of the honeycakes he had intended for Jacob and held it out. She stared at it in sheer disbelief for a heartbeat, then snatched the honeycake from his hand with the speed of a striking viper.

He glanced around. "For the love of the Maker, don't let Bartholomew see you."

With the pastry nearly crammed whole into her mouth, she could only make a noise of agreement. She swallowed a huge bite and said, "Who are you, anyway? You look like a boatman, but you talk too fancy."

Varel gave her a small, ironic bow before turning away. "A shem who cares."

He had just reached the next street when he winced at Bartholomew's shrill voice; the pimp was haranguing the poor girl for bringing in so little.

Varel was no spy, but the young man he was following seemed lost in thought, which made it easy to avoid his target's notice. It did him little good, for the assistant was only going back to the harbormaster's office, presumably returning to work. Thwarted, Varel set his teeth in frustration as he walked past that large and busy building.

What had he hoped to accomplish? Did he really think he would somehow stumble over the man while he was doing something, preferably incriminating? Not that he had any proof the assistant was involved in anything illicit. All he had was a nebulous gut feeling - but he had learned to trust such things.

The answers were somewhere in that building, he was certain of it, and being so close and yet so far from them made his hands clench into fists.

Not having any more bright ideas, he turned back towards the brothers' lodgings. He decided he would speak to the boatmen; he was certain that if the harbormaster assistant had troubles, it was common knowledge, and the boatmen, being inveterate gossipers, would be more than happy to talk his ear off.

First, he had to prepare for tonight's meeting, and he had better be well rested for that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel meets the unexpectedly wealthy leader of those invisible people who have to do the dirtiest of jobs.

" _That_ is Ulla's house?" Varel said in disbelief to Ker. " _All_ of them? Surely you jest."

The boatman's grin was a gleam in the darkness. "Aye, 'tis her place all right. All of it."

Varel thought he could be excused for his skepticism, as the house Ker was poling his boat to more resembled that of a noble's mansion than a boatman's house, if someone had removed the defensive wall to show off all the various buildings that made up an estate. Only the fact that no sane noble would build a home in this poor quarter and that he could see no household guards outside assured him that Ker was not playing a joke on him. Among the cluster of dilapidated houses, one stood at four stories, looming over the others that surrounded it; though it was late in the evening, he could see it was new construction, and not cheap or shoddy work, either.

"It must have cost a fortune," Varel said.

"Aye, but Ulla kin spare it," Ker said, with a mixture of pride and rue. "Haven't seen t'inside of it yet meself."

"How in the Maker's name could she afford it?"

"Ye'll have ta ask her for all t' mucky details, but I know t' tanners and dyers and launderers buy what they need from her, and what they don't take t' farmers gladly will." Ker laughed. "An' on top of what people pay her ta take away in t' first place!"

There was a pier in front, but Varel could hear whistles and see a great deal of lights not too far away; that would be where all the real business was being conducted.

"Why not bring us 'round to the back?" Varel said.

"Nah, 'tis busier than a kicked hornet nest back there at this hour, and they wouldn't thank me fer messin' up t' schedule."

The buildings were not as unguarded as they looked; a huge man came out from the largest in answer to Ker's whistle, catching the rope Ker tossed to him. No doubt he was another one of Ker's innumerable relations. "Oi, Ker! Ulla's expectin' ye," he said as he tied up the boat.

"Thanks, Ollen," Ker said as he shipped his oar. He hopped up onto the pier; Varel followed suit. "Ye goin' out or in?"

"Out," the other man said, as he beckoned them inside. "Gah, 'tis colder n' Andraste's brass tits out here. Can't wait for spring ta come, even if it means t' stink gets bad."

Varel looked about with interest as he pulled down his scarf. The place was quite simple and austere inside, but clean and warm: the walls were whitewashed, though unadorned, polished wooden floorboards protected their feet from the chill of the stone, and instead of being lit by torches, simple oil lamps illuminated the way. Varel smiled at that, because while the lamps were a sign of the family's prosperity, they were also placed where they would do the most good; no doubt some member of the family in charge of such things extinguished them when they were not needed to save fuel.

They were not the only ones about, for the collectors started work at a time when most people were already in bed. Men and women with the look of Ker's family went by, intent upon their own business, but what Varel noticed and piqued his interest were the wax tablets they all had in their hands. While most of the boatmen could not write their own names, they could figure sums like the best dwarven merchant. Someone - most likely Ulla - had the wit to take advantage of that, and was keeping records.

Their guide left them at the bottom of a set of stairs near the back of the building, close enough for Varel to hear the sounds of water slapping against hulls, voices, and the tramping of many feet. A girl about Jacob's age waited with two baskets, one full of blank tablets, and the other was filling up as boatmen came in and handed the ones they carried to her. A boy waited with much larger baskets full of wrapped packages and flasks, which Varel realized were food and drink for the boatmen going on duty. Somewhere nearby there must be a kitchen, because he could smell cooking food.

"Ever since they finished t' buildin', Ulla's taken ta roostin' on t' top floor," Ollen said. "Moved her fancy new office up there. I gotta git to it now, 'tis time for me shift."

Ker waved to the other man, then gestured Varel to follow him up the plain but sturdy stairs. The views of the second and third floors revealed little but hallways that might lead to rooms set aside for the family, but the fourth opened out into a small office or receiving room, lit with more oil lamps. The space smelled strongly of oil, whitewash, and wood polish. There was a heavy table and a few simple chairs, but that was all; there was nothing that was purely ornamental, save for the simple Andrastian sunburst that hung on the wall opposite the stairs.

Ker looked around, then summoned his cousin by the simple expedient of bellowing her name.

"Ker! Is that ye yellin' out there?" A woman barged through an archway, giving Varel a curious glance before turning her attention to her cousin. "That rascal of a son of yers come by, said ye wanted ta bring someone and talk."

While Ulla and Ker exchanged greetings and news and gossip of this or that relation in fast-paced boatman's lingo, Varel took the opportunity to observe their host. Ulla was a big woman, almost as tall and wide as Ker, though most of her muscular bulk was hidden under many layers of clothes. Due to most of her work being done at night, she was paler of complexion, if just as weathered, than Ker. Despite her size and physique, she was much younger than Varel expected for someone who was the head of her family. Then he recalled Ker mentioning her father had died.

"Ye'll be joinin' us fer t' meal?" Ulla said. "We made extra when Tims said ye was comin' by."

Ker shook his head. "Thanks, but t' wife's already peeved at me fer missin' meals two nights inna row, and I gotta git up early ta git t' fish in."

"How many pots did she throw at ye?" Ulla said, her eyes bright with mischief.

Ker made a face at his cousin. "Enough. And she didn't miss. Anyway, I only came by ta introduce ye ta Varel. He's t' seneschal up at t' Vigil."

The welcome in Ulla's expression changed to wariness. "T'one what brought all them soldiers that time?"

"Aye." Ker gave Varel an ironic look.

With eyes that had gone hard, her gaze raked Varel from head to toe. "Ye look more like a boatman than a soldier, and a poor one at that. Where's yer fancy armor and sword?"

Varel bowed with no hint of irony. "Back at the Vigil, mistress."

Ulla snorted. "I ain't no 'mistress', me. Ye'll calls me Ulla like everyone else."

"Very well... Ulla. I thought I would attract less attention if I looked like a boatman, and no one would be on their guard. Who would bother? There is a time and place for a show of force, and I judged this was not one of them."

"And ye came ta us?" She looked pleased, but still suspicious.

Varel knew he had to choose his words wisely; Ulla was no noble who could be flattered by fine words. "Everyone knows the boatfolk see everything, information which they do not share with just anyone."

Ulla seemed to soften just a little at that. "Aye, us boatfolk sees and hears everythin' happenin' 'round here. Ker tells me ye been workin' with me cousins, haulin' cargo. Wouldn't have thought ye'd stoop ta such."

"I am not afraid of hard work." Varel did not mention his various aches and pains.

Ker's smile went crooked when he saw the hint of approval in his cousin's face, and said, "Well, now that ye've hit it off, I'd better git goin', or t' wife'll be throwin' more pots at me head when I git in. I'll pick ye up tomorrow mornin', Varel. Early." 'Early' for the boatfolk meant 'before the sun is even up.'

Ulla saw her cousin out, then led Varel into her office, which was small but warm, heated with much larger versions of the braziers than the one in Ker's boat, not a fireplace. Which made sense, when he saw the sleeping child in the cradle next to her desk, watched over by a much older relation. By her close resemblance to his host, Varel thought she might be Ulla's mother; she was carving something, and the pleasant smell of the shavings tickled his nose. 

Under the light of a hanging oil lamp similar to the ones in the Vigil's library, stacks of wax tablets and papers - good quality paper, not scraped scraps of parchment - on her desk caught his attention. A glance told him they were not just covered with tallies, but notations, which meant his host was literate. That was surprising; most if not all of the boatfolk were not.

While he was still chewing over that, Ulla introduced her mother, then offered him both a seat and a tankard of wine; he smiled and thanked her, and knew he had passed some test. As he took a sip of the tart, rough vintage the boatfolk favored, his eyes roamed across the office.

Though her desk was lit with the lamp, a brace of fine unlit beeswax candles also stood nearby. There was actual glass in the windows, not waxed parchment, even if they were thick and opaque with bubbles and impurities.

Thrifty as all boatfolk were, the whitewashed walls would concentrate the light, and there were cunning reflectors - the same kind the Dwarven Merchants' Guild used in their high stone buildings. Varel frowned for a moment, then realized the windows faced the west, not the east, taking advantage of the afternoon sun. That was when Ulla must start her working hours, still tied to the night's work.

Those windows and candles, more than anything else, were a sign of the family's fast-growing wealth. They stood in stark contrast to the room, which was as unadorned as what he had seen of the rest of the building. He had seen inn rooms with more personality. Like the small receiving area outside, there was a strong smell of cheap lamp oil and whitewash, though here it was leavened with the more pleasant scents of beeswax, hot coals, parchment, and paper.

There was also a map of the city painted on an entire wall, which had been partitioned into squares, and each section was numbered. Each of those sections held a varying number of wooden pegs, with more clustered in the different quarters than others. There were more in the residential areas than the docks, he realized.

Ulla noticed him admiring the map. "Ah, ye like it? Ain't it fine? I hired t' painter what does t'art fer t' Chantry."

"Where did you get the idea for this, if I might ask?"

His host seemed eager to explain, with a light in her eyes like a Chantry cleric eager to expound on some theory. Perhaps her kin did not share her enthusiasm. "Met a down-on-her-luck dwarf miner in t' tavern when I was a girl, and she showed me a clever map of her mine, all covered in squares. One look and ye can see where more work needed ta be done, and which seams had thinned out. I thought, well, why not do that fer people, here in t' city, instead of a mine. We been expandin' quick as quick, see, and I couldn't keep it all in me head no more."

"This is really quite brilliant," Varel said, which made Ulla beam with pleasure. "What do the pegs represent? The number of collectors needed to haul away - er, do their job?"

"Aye." Ulla nodded approval at his guess. "Different seasons, day of t' week, illness, or a holiday might change how many pots we gots ta bring ta and away. T'inns always has extra customers in fer Satinalia, fer example. 'Tis a busy time fer them - and us, at t'end of t' day."

As fascinating as Varel found the collection system, he still had yet to ask about the Tevinters' warehouse. He told her of her cousins' observations and his own tentative conclusions.

"T' collection fer where? And two months ago, ye say?" Ulla said, and when he told her, she looked at the map on the wall, then sorted through one particular stack of papers and consulted one. "Oh, aye, we did need ta haul away more than t'usual."

"Can you guess how many?"

Ulla looked down at the paper, then slid a few beads on her counting board. "About two dozen at first, give or take, and barrin' illness, but we been collectin' regular nuff ta know." She frowned as she flipped through the stack. "But we began ta take more n' more away, and now it's, aye, hm - four dozen."

Varel was impressed by her precision; clearly she was a woman who believed in _accurate_ records. "Can you tell me anything else? We were not able get a closer look at the place."

To his disappointment, she shook her head and said, "All I kin tell ye's we was paid extra fer not botherin' them."

"Is that usual?"

Ulla shrugged. "Sometimes. Just means we only do pick up. Usually some of t' nobles what don't want t' likes of us hangin' 'round even their back doors, and others what gives themselves airs." She smirked. "Don't care; they still gotta pay us ta take away their shit."

Varel frowned. "That doesn't sound like the sort of people who would rent a warehouse."

"At least they was polite 'bout it."

He raised his brows in mild surprise. "You met them personally?"

"Aye, I takes a turn on t' boats same as t' rest." Ulla cast a rueful eye on her tablets, and her child. "Not so much now as I used ta."

"You miss it?"

She laughed, a big, open laugh that Varel liked. "'Tis strange, ye must think, but aye. I don't miss t' stink, but it don't feel right if me feet ain't rockin' onna boat."

Varel smiled, thinking of his own routine at the Vigil. "I understand. Would you tell me more of your impressions?"

Ulla frowned. "Well, I admit it did seem funny - and not in t' ha-ha sorta way - but I'm always so busy, I didn't pay it no mind."

"How so?"

Ulla scratched her head. "T' folk what rent t' warehouses, they don't really care 'bout nothin' but their cargo and keepin' it safe. So they gots their dogs and their guards, but they gots ta piss and shit like anyone else, which means they let us do t' work if they don't wanna sicken." She gave him a cynical grin. "Or worse, dirty their goods."

"And these would not allow you?"

"Aye. They leave it fer us ta pick up outside t' gates."

He gave her an intent look. "That sounds unusual."

Ulla was more sanguine. "Not really. Some of t' more paranoid types, t' ones what shepherd t' real pricey stuff, don't like ta let strangers git that close." At the unspoken question in his face, she shrugged and said, "Gems, ivory, spices, coral, and t' like. Small volume, huge profit, but also easy fer thieves ta walk off with. So we keeps our mouths shut, take t' money, and work fast."

Varel doubted such goods were meant for anyone in Ferelden, save possibly the royal palace, but certainly they were destined for the much wealthier courts in Orlais.

"But still unusual enough for you to take note."

"Aye, well, ya don't mess with those types - quick with a blade they are - so we makes sure ta keep our distance."

Well, so much for his vague plans to infiltrate the Tevinters' warehouses somehow; that would be impossible, at least by this route. Perhaps it was just as well; he was no spy.

He tried a different tack. "You serve the harbormaster's office, too? Have they taken any similar precautions?"

Ulla consulted her records again. "Nah."

Varel took another sip of his wine and gathered his thoughts. "Do you know how secure the place is?"

She gave him a severe look. "Ye'd have ta go out on t' boat ta see. That ain't somethin' we makes a note of. We ain't thieves." Her expression lightened a little. "Anyways, we're too busy ta nose 'round; 'tis just one stop on t' way."

"I am not a thief, I assure you," he said, and paused. "Would you be willing to let me use the collection as a cover?"

"Why? Pretty sure they lock t' rest of t' place up tight, on account of all them records. How would ye get in?"

Varel leaned forward. "What all have you heard about the harbormaster's assistant?"

She looked bemused at the change in subject, but told him what she had heard. Ulla's mother was better informed, or at least had more leisure than her busy daughter did to listen to gossip while watching over her grandchildren.

"Lives with his mum, 'cause she's sick," Ulla's mother said, holding up what she was whittling and inspecting it with a critical eye before setting her knife to it again. "She never did git over her husband gettin' lost at sea, and then she got t' lung fever so bad. Every winter it comes back, so her boy has ta pay fer t' medicines, and they ain't cheap." Her gossip matched what Wren and Raven had told him.

She gave him an expectant look. Varel, knowing how these exchanges worked, told them what had happened with the assistant and the whore. While Ulla and her mother gasped and shook her heads and giggled over the scandal of it, he thought about the young assistant and his lack of funds, and a possible unguarded way into the harbormaster's office.

"I may have a way to gain access to the office," he said. "I am certain that the evidence I need is inside, but it will take time for me to search for it. It may take several tries - there are many records to search through."

The two women glanced at each other. "Ye want ta use me boats ta get in and away."

"Only if you agree, of course," Varel said. He started to tell her his idea for using the collectors' entrance into the Tevinters' compound, but stopped, because it was still too vague to explain even to himself.

Ulla was silent for a few moments. "Are ye _sure_ about them bein' Tevinters? Are they really slavers?"

"I believe your cousins, and the evidence of my eyes. Do you?"

Ulla gave her mother a beseeching look, as a child might when asked a hard question, but that worthy only gazed back at her daughter and said nothing.

"'Tis wrong," Ulla said at last. "An evil thing that Andraste herself fought, and she died ta free us all from it." Her voice firmed with resolve. "I'll help ye with whatever ye need."

"Thank you," Varel said. "I will endeavor to keep your involvement to a minimum, and your folk safe from reprisal."

"That'll be a help, aye."

He began to think of how best to use the boatfolk's help when Ulla's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Please, join us fer t' meal."

Varel began to refuse. "I do not wish to impose -"

"Ye wouldn't be imposin'," Ulla said in a firm tone. "'Tis been like a breath of fresh air, talkin' ta someone who _understands_. Don't git me wrong, I love me folk, but they kin be hidebound. This -" she gestured at her desk "- and all my ideas, be all new ta them."

"They are conservative," he said, not without sympathy. "Their father, and his father, and his father, have done the same things in the same way for generations, and they are not minded to change tradition or what works."

"Aye," Ulla said with a roll of her eyes, and would have said more on the subject when the girl who had been handing out wax tablets downstairs came in.

"Mama, the food's ready."

Beside the girl, the boy who had dispensed the meals to the boatmen said a less polite, but very heartfelt, "I'm _hungry_!" Ulla and her mother chuckled, and Varel smiled.

He joined Ulla and her family downstairs for the meal - dinner, for them - where he was introduced to her children, the girl and the boy, and her husband. To Varel's surprise, Ulla's husband was not another boatman, but a big, bluff farmer. Enar was more than happy to expand upon how he had won his wife at the least encouragement. Or how she had won him, to hear him tell it.

"Didn't have much land to tempt a good woman," Enar said as he set down a loaf of hot bread and a plate of sharp-smelling goat's milk cheese in front of Varel. "Just a long strip really, on a bit of the Hafter River that curls up like a pig's tail to the north. Rich, good soil on account of the river, near a good bit of woods, fishing's not bad, but it's rocky, ye see, only good for goats once ye move away from the water."

Varel nodded. He had left his father's farm when he was just a boy, but he remembered enough to understand.

"Maybe it ain't much of a farm, but 'tis perfect fer cookin' compost," Ulla said. "'Tis only a short distance fer t' barges ta bring t' muck down ta t' river and back."

"It's true," her husband said with a proud smile. "Farmers come for miles around for it. Lord Bensley swears by it after he bought some for his wine grapes, and the other nobles have been snapping up the rest ever since. We're even thinking of buying more land."

After the children left for their studies, for they, too, shared the same hours, the adults passed a pleasant hour with such talk. Ulla and her family were unexpectedly good company; they were open and cheerful, not afraid to laugh at themselves, quite unlike the nobles Varel had to deal with.

Enar caught Varel stifling a yawn and grinned. "You're not used to keeping our hours, that's all," he said when Varel made his apologies.

"'Tis cold and dark, and too late fer ye ta find yer way back ta me cousins. Ye kin stay here for t' night, we've plenty of beds," Ulla's mother said, in the same firm tone she had used to get her grandchildren to eat their greens.

It was not possible to refuse and not give offense. "Then I must thank you for your hospitality and impose upon you once more," Varel said.

Leaving her husband and mother to clean up after the meal, Ulla led him out of the kitchen and down the hall to a room nearby that looked like the Vigil's servants' quarters, a long, low place filled with bunk beds. "'Tis where t' unmarried men sleep if they don't wanna stay with their families," she said, then gave him a considering look.

Varel saw the calculation in Ulla's eyes, and knew she saw the same in his; she knew there were advantages to striking up an alliance - perhaps even friendship - with someone at the Vigil. She could not know how precarious his position actually was, even if she understood the dangers of the arling's lack of a proper ruler. Still, he was a conduit into the local court, and well worth cultivating, just as she was. Ulla, he thought, was a woman to watch.

He gave her a bow. "I think we understand one another."

Ulla did not deny it; she smiled and nodded. "Aye. 'Twas a pleasure ta meet ye, Varel. I hope ye'll visit again."

"If I have the time, I will, and gladly."

"Then have a good sleep. Ker'll be by in t' mornin'." Ulla gave him a friendly nod and left.

Varel sat down on the nearest pallet and pulled off his boots, aware of how little time he had left in the city before he must take up his duties again in Vigil's Keep. Before he left, he had to lay the groundwork for a plan that would require a good number of variables to align together. He was still attempting to assemble the puzzle together when he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I'm using the old meaning of 'dinner', a meal that was taken at noon in medieval times.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel digs through a great deal of muck to find what he is looking for - or at least has to haul a whole lot of it.

It felt as if he had only slept for a few minutes when he awoke to Ker shaking him by the shoulder. Yawning, Varel pulled his boots on and tugged his hood down, making sure his face was covered by his scarf as he followed the boatman down the hall, where a sleepy boy was holding the door open. It was not even dawn yet; fog and darkness shrouded the pier, with Ker's boat rising out of the mist like a ghost ship. He shivered as he came out of Ulla's warm home and into the freezing, clammy twilit air.

Ker's solution for Varel's shivers was not inviting him into his cabin to warm up at the brazier, but hard, honest work. Varel found himself being drafted into carrying heavy wicker crates of still-twitching crabs packed in crushed ice and seaweed to the fish market. Then he was somehow delegated the task of hauling boxes of fish to the kitchens behind the dockside taverns, while Ker poled the boat along.

Not until all of the cargo had been unloaded did Ker allow him to rest. Varel had to admit that he was now so warm he was sweating after all that exertion. He was also damp, covered in scales, and smelled of fish and wet wool.

Ker slapped him on the back. "We'll make a proper boatman outta ye yet!"

"I already smell like one," Varel said as he tried to brush the fish scales off his damp clothes.

The boatman chuckled as he ducked down and thrust his hand into the cabin. "Here, ye've earned this," he said when he straightened up, handing Varel a wrapped packet and a thick pottery flask.

The packet turned out to contain a couple of sausage rolls, still warm from being left in or near the brazier, and the flask was full of watered wine. Varel sat down, ignoring the fishy dampness of the deck, and leaned against the wall of the cabin as Ker poled the boat along.

"How is Jacob? I hope the boys are keeping out of trouble," Varel said, pulling down his scarf so that he could eat.

He felt a little guilty at neglecting the boy, though the honeycakes had seemed a suitable bribe, to judge by the alacrity with which they had disappeared down Jacob's gullet the previous evening.

"Yer boy's fine," the boatman said, and sighed. "But I dunno as anyone but Andraste herself kin keep t' rascals outta trouble. Well, what'd Ulla say? Was she willin' ta help ye?"

"Yes, but now I need to speak to the harbormaster's assistant." Varel cocked an eye at the sun, which was only just now rising from the sea, through thick, heavy clouds that promised snow later. The air had that smell.

"Eh? What fer?"

"I believe he can get me into the harbormaster's office - with sufficient persuasion." Varel cast a rueful glance down at his tattered, wet, and smelly clothes. "Unfortunately, this time I have not the advantage of my armor and soldiers. But then the assistant is only one man. Perhaps..." He eyed the other man.

Ker sighed, took his cap off, and ran a hand through his hair before jamming the shapeless wool hat back on. "Varel, ye're set on makin' me wife throw pots at me head, ain't ye?"

"Then perhaps I should ask your cousins -"

"What? And make me miss all t' fun?"

"I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one, Ker," Varel said, torn between amusement and disapproval.

"Aye, that's why ye'll need me ta put t' fear of t' Maker in t' boy," the boatman said with a grin. "I look scarier than me cousins."

Varel had to admit the other man had a point. Ker was as big and tough as his younger cousins, but he also possessed a hardness they lacked. "It's true I would not want to encounter you in a dark alley."

"Are ye sayin' I'm ugly?"

He slanted a sly smile at Ker. "Perhaps that is why your wife is throwing crockery at your head - she is trying to improve your rugged good looks."

The boatman roared with laughter. When he recovered his composure, he said, "All right, yer boy's gonna be at work right now, so let's git t' rest of t' deliveries made."

Varel knew better than to protest being drafted. "I must return to the Vigil soon, so I need to find him today - tomorrow at the latest. Do you happen to know which taverns he favors?" The assistant lived at home with his mother, and if she was sick, he likely took his meals elsewhere.

Ker's broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Blast if I knows. Ain't like we drinks tagether."

Thinking of the elves he spoke to yesterday, Varel said, "Then I need to go speak to someone at the market."

" _After_ we're done with t' deliveries."

Since he doubted the whores started work so early, Varel was amenable. The sun was a bright but blurry disk high overhead, and flurries of snow drifted like white feathers over the city before they were done. Fortunately for the state of his clothes, the cargo Ker had picked up were dry goods, barrels of wine and ale, which were too small for Ker's cousins to bother with.

Ker looked over the goods in the market while Varel went to negotiate with the elf, glad that Bartholomew was not present. Perhaps it was too early in the day. After a few moments spent haggling over the information and parting with a small amount of bits, the whore told him the harbormaster's assistant liked to frequent one particular tavern near the docks that catered to lower-level clerks, traders, and small merchants.

Varel glanced at the small secondhand pot Ker had just purchased from a tinker. No, not a new purchase, a repair, judging from the shiny solder on one side. "Is it wise to acquire more things for your wife to throw at your head?"

"Very funny," Ker said as he stuffed the pot into a sack. "So, where ta?"

"The Golden Mussel."

Ker considered this. "T' wine ain't cheap, but t' food is, and good."

"I have no intention of waylaying him inside, so it is no use trying to cadge free beer," Varel said, giving the boatman a dry look.

The boatman gave him a wry grin. "Ah, well. Hadda try."

Ker poled his boat to a pier close to the tavern, which Varel helped to tie to the mooring post, then they walked the rest of the way. Luck was with them, as four or five dockside workers had gathered under the shelter of a protruding roof to eat their dinner. Despite the cold weather, they were tossing dice in one of the less noisome alleys near the Golden Mussel. A small pack of dogs, attracted by the scent of food, had surrounded the men, their whines mixing with the clicking of the bones as they begged for scraps. Varel squatted down behind the group, pretending to be interested in the game, while Ker loomed in the shadows in the back.

Varel was feeding bits of his remaining sausage roll to a friendly little brindle bitch when he felt a large hand on his shoulder.

Ker leaned down and said into Varel's ear, "There. Think that's yer boy."

Under the pretense of adjusting his scarf, Varel turned his head and saw the young man walk into the tavern. "We'll speak to him when he comes back out." They were more likely to catch him off balance after he was full of food and ale.

When Ker gripped his shoulder again perhaps half an hour later, Varel gave the dog one last scratch behind her ears before standing up, taking a moment to stretch the stiffness out of his limbs before following the boatman. None of the gamblers paid them any mind except for the dog, which followed after for a few steps, whining piteously.

The assistant trudged up the street, then turned into a side-alley on his way back, presumably, to work. Varel exchanged a look with Ker, pointed at himself, then ahead. Ker nodded and dropped back. Varel lengthened his stride as he walked to the lane that alley opened onto, and swung around the corner just as the man was about to exit. The way was so narrow it was easy to crowd him.

Jarred out of his thoughts, the assistant stepped back before he ran into Varel, and frowned. "Excuse me," he said. His hand crept to his belt knife.

"After we've had a little talk first," Varel said, not moving.

The young man turned, only to see a large, bear-like form was now blocking out most of the light at the other end of the alley. "Scream and I'll thump ye, boy," Ker said.

"Look, I, I, I don't have much money," the assistant said, his eyes wide with alarm as he tried to keep them both in sight.

Deciding he had frightened the man enough, Varel pulled down the scarf covering his face. "Do you know who I am?"

The assistant stared at him. "Y-you're the seneschal at Vigil's Keep! I, I, I mean I heard you were -" His voice trailed off as he subsided in confusion. "But I saw you in town not that long ago." His brow furrowed as he finally took in the ragged clothes Varel was wearing.

"I would prefer not discussing anything in an alley," Varel said as he pulled his scarf back over his face.

He glanced around, then nodded at another tavern nearby, the Chevalier's Head, remembering when it used a real one as a sign. It had booths instead of simple tables for traders to talk business in safety, away from listening ears, without having to pay for a much more expensive private room.

Ker had come up to them by this time, and placed a large hand on the young man's shoulder. He gave it a squeeze in warning. "Listen ta t' man, boy. Answer his questions and ye'll come outta this unharmed. Play yer cards right and mebbe ye'll even earn some coin."

Varel did not miss the assistant's slight start when Ker mentioned money, but the man's eyes still darted this way and that, looking for escape. Shoulders slumping at finding none, he followed Varel to the inn, where the innkeep looked Varel up and down and said, "You have money?"

A silver was enough to allay the innkeep's fears, and also pay for the use of one of the booths lining the wall, ale, and meals for both Varel and Ker. The boatman pushed the assistant down onto the worn seat and sat on the outside, trapping him against the wall, while Varel sat on the opposite bench. The noise from the rest of the tavern was muffled by the thick partitions enclosing the benches; Varel had to hope the reverse was also true.

Varel looked at the sullen expression on the assistant's face and said, "What is your name?"

"Imriss," the man muttered to the table. He glanced up at Varel, then back down at the scarred wooden surface. "What do you want?"

"Information," Varel said.

Imriss's teeth worried at his bottom lip as he considered the offer. A server came and plunked down a pitcher of ale, tankards, bowls of hot fish stew, a plate of dark bread, and a crock of cheese.

"Why should I help you?" Imriss finally said, sounding sullen.

"I can pay you for it." Varel poured ale into a tankard and pushed it towards Imriss. "You know me; you know my reputation. I have no intention of asking you to betray any confidences. But there is something very wrong happening in the city, and I need your help in finding it."

Imriss's brow furrowed. "What?"

Ker poured himself a tankard. He drained half of it and said, "Don't be stupid, boy. He's talkin' 'bout people disappearin' in t' night."

"The disappearances? Lissa -" Imriss cut himself off, his cheeks flushing. "I-I mean, someone told me people were vanishing from the streets."

Varel nodded. "And my first inkling of it was when I was in the harbormaster's office, when he was foolish enough to try to hide a ledger from me. That is why we are sitting here now, having this conversation."

Imriss shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "What... what do you want to know?"

"The harbormaster - has he been spending more money than he should have lately?"

The assistant scratched his head. "Well, it's funny you should mention that. A month ago he started sneaking off to the Silver Sails when he should've been on duty." He scowled. "And dumping all of his work on me."

Varel recognized the name as one of the city's many brothels, and not a cheap one. "Do you know how he has come by his newfound wealth?"

Imriss shook his head. "I only thought he might have had a good return on some cargo on the merchant ships. But... this good?"

"Have you seen him meeting anyone who seemed out of the ordinary?" Varel did not really think the harbormaster would be so foolish as to speak to a slaver in public, much less make any deals in his assistant's earshot or sight, and so Imriss's answer proved. Could he be meeting them at the brothel?

"How do you know where he went?"

Imriss reddened again in remembered embarrassment. "There was some urgent request or other, I don't even remember what, so I had to go there and find him."

That did not preclude clandestine meetings in the brothel, but the harbormaster was, ultimately, a side issue. He would have to be dealt with, of course, but by the bann, not Varel, and he did not have time for distractions. He tore a piece off a loaf and dipped it into the stew, using the time to gather his thoughts. For a brief moment, he considered asking Imriss to fetch the ledgers for him, but discarded the idea, as the assistant might not know what to look for. And Varel was loathe to implicate the young man in his scheme.

"If he leaves you in charge to go off to the brothel, then he must leave his keys with you."

Imriss hesitated, then seemed to realize there was really nothing to steal from the office except records. He sipped his ale, toyed with his tankard for a moment, then said, "He does. But, ser, if you don't mind my asking... why aren't you questioning him directly? And why are you dressed like that?"

Ker paused in the middle of shoveling stew into his mouth and snorted. "Think 'bout it, boy."

The assistant frowned into his tankard in silence.

Varel pulled down his scarf to eat some of his stew, which turned out to be mediocre, and decided on a direct approach. Time waited for no man. "I need to see the records, and find the ledger the harbormaster tried to hide from me, assuming he has not hidden it away or destroyed it. Would you be willing to give me access to the harbormaster's own office?"

The question took Imriss aback. "But if he catches you - and won't he know - if you find it, won't it go missing?" he said, looking worried. "If he finds out... He will suspect me, and I, I can't afford to lose my position."

"He does not seem all that concerned, if he is visiting the brothel when he should be working. Especially since some nosy fool from Vigil's Keep, wearing his conspicuous armor, accompanied by even more conspicuous soldiers, has not shown up to snoop about in the city."

Ker chuckled, while Imriss looked first startled, then thoughtful instead of just frightened. "All right," the assistant said. "I can let you in if you promise me you won't damage anything, bring trouble on me, or take anything else. And no one is to get hurt. Now, I want payment in advance."

"Half once I am actually inside, and the rest if I am successful in finding any evidence. You know I am good for it."

Imriss glowered at this condition, but, tempted by the promise of money, agreed in the end. "Fine, but if you try to cheat me..." He gave Varel a glare that was about as intimidating as the brindle dog he had been petting earlier.

Varel kept a serious expression on his face, though the impulse to smile was strong. "I have no intention of cheating you, or anyone else."

Then it was time to come to a price. Varel watched the other man's expression with great care as they negotiated; he did not want to pay too little, lest resentment over being cheated drive Imriss into betraying him, or so much that Imriss would try to rob him. The latter was not much of a concern, with Ker sitting like a leather-and-wool-covered mountain beside him, but there were desperate people who might take their chances.

The assistant looked nervous again. He took a breath, then said, "Well. When do you want to do this?"

"I am not unaware of the danger to your position," Varel said. "I think it would be too risky to do this during the day, though I've a mind to try after he leaves for the brothel."

Imriss shook his head. "No! Sometimes he comes back, after he has been gone for a few hours. To make sure I'm still working, I think." He scowled again and muttered, "The lazy swine."

"Meet me at the back entrance of the harbormaster's building tonight, when the night soil collectors come."

The assistant looked puzzled at the mention of the collectors, but the time took him aback. "Tonight? So soon?"

"Is there a problem?" The less time the young man had to think about it, the less chance he had of betraying them.

"Well, no, I-I suppose not. But..."

It was time to show some sympathy. "Do you need someone to watch over your mother while you are doing this? I heard she is suffering from lung fever."

Imriss gaped. "H-how did you know -"

Varel smiled. "I have my ways," he said, ignoring Ker as he rolled his eyes. "Well?"

"N-no, ser. She'll be asleep by then." Imriss paused. "But thank you for the offer."

Ker hefted the pitcher, his expression growing lugubrious when he peered into its depths and found it empty, prompting Varel to say, "I have business to attend to, so we cannot linger."

The young man drained his tankard. "And I need to go back to work, ser." He gave the boatman sitting next to him a wary look, as if he did not expect Ker to let him go so easily.

"We shall see you tonight then. Remember, the back of the building, when the collectors come." Varel and Ker stood, allowing the assistant to escape.

Ker slung his sack over his shoulder and gave the departing assistant's back an unimpressed glance. "Ye think ye kin trust him?" he said, once they were outside.

"No, but we can trust his greed," Varel said. "Now I must go and make the arrangements with your cousin."

The boatman grinned. "Ye'll have ta wake Ulla up, and she's like a bear with a toothache if someone wakes her up too early." _You fool_ was unspoken but implied.

"The seal of Amaranthine is a bear on a shield. I am not afraid of bears."

Ker gave him the sort of pitying look one gave to someone blithely volunteering to stick their hand into a horrible trap. "Ye should be."

Varel had faced charging chevaliers, desperate bandits, and drunk pirates in his time, so the thought of a large, angry boatwoman only daunted him a little. "For the honor of Vigil's Keep, I cannot turn aside, Ker. Onward."

* * *

Though it was snowing and dark, Varel was glad for once of the cold, for it kept the stench down. Once again he had been pressed into service, this time carrying empty buckets to the businesses, warehouses, and small trading houses on the way to the harbormaster, and hauling full ones brimming with ordure back to the boat. He considered himself fortunate, since he could have been assigned to the wagons they used when they were too far from a barge.

Ulla was an indistinct shadow among many as he neared, illuminated only by the uncertain light of the lantern hooked on a mast-like beam in the broad prow of the barge. She had accompanied him on this run to keep an eye on the novice and to ensure nothing went wrong, though Varel suspected she also took a perverse delight in seeing him perform this noisome duty.

"We're almost there - 'tis our last stop," she said, holding a terracotta amphora steady for him to pour the reeking contents of the latest haul into the wide mouth. The barge already rode low in the water from the weight of the full ones.

"I suspect I am about to encounter a stench to rival the entire contents of your boat," Varel said as he rinsed the buckets in the freezing water. "At least yours is honestly come by."

Ulla's partner - yet another of her relatives - came up to them bearing his own buckets just as she sealed the amphora with a wax stopper. By the time Varel finished helping the other man, she had already untied the boat and poled it into the current.

As Amaranthine was a busy port, even in winter, the harbormaster's building employed a large workforce, which was reflected in the number of buckets waiting there for them. Varel hated to see what the collectors had to face at the height of the busy season. Feeling he could not, in all honor, abandon the boatmen to do all that work by themselves, Varel suppressed a sigh and helped the others collect every stinking bit of it first. Ulla and her relative looked grateful - inasmuch as he could see them by the light of the little lantern.

Despite the seemingly interminable number of buckets, they soon had all of it contained safely in Ulla's amphorae.

"Thanks fer t' help, Varel," Ulla said as she sealed the last amphora. "But are ye sure ye'll be all right all alone in there?"

"I won't be alone. Ker has risked his head and the wrath of his wife once more to be my lookout - and bully boy, if need be," Varel said.

Varel lit a taper from her lantern and ignited the wick in another, one with a shutter, that he took out from a sack; he had borrowed the device from Ker, who had only made vague noises when asked why he had it. He had not pressed the matter, suspecting it was used for smuggling.

"Well, much as I'd like ta stay and watch Ker's wife use 'im as target practice - and mebbe takes bets - I gots ta git all this lot back. Good luck ta ye." Ulla's grin gleamed like a beacon in the dark. "And if ye ever find yerself in need of work, I kin always use 'nother hand ta haul shit."

"Thank you, Ulla. I'll bear your offer in mind, since I do have much experience dealing with it." Varel swept her his best courtly bow; there was another flash of a grin and a giggle, then he heard a quiet splash as her partner poled them away.

Varel opened the shutter on his lantern as the light from Ulla's boat disappeared into the drifting snow, leaving him in a peculiar silence that was filled only by the faint hissing of the falling flakes. Darkness and the weather had cast a cloak of mystery over the familiar buildings, softening their outlines and obscuring landmarks, and so it took him some time to find what he was looking for.

Ker had anchored his own barge nearby, earlier in the day. Varel whistled, and was relieved to hear Ker respond in the same fashion. Boarding a boatman's barge without his permission, even to shake him awake, was a dangerous proposition.

"I was afraid you might have fallen asleep," Varel said as Ker came out of the tiny cabin with his own lantern and hopped ashore.

"Took a nap at home," the other man said.

Varel gave Ker a mock-incredulous look. "And your wife allowed this?"

"Told her ye'd find what ye came fer tonight and go 'way, so she didn't mind. I mean, she only threw one pot at me, and she missed. Ye'd better not make a liar outta me, or I'll be sleepin' on t' boat from now on."

"Why? Did she run out of pots?"

Ker shook a fist at him, then stepped back when the wind shifted. "Hoo, ye don't half stink," he said as he waved his hand in front of his face.

"Indeed. Let's go find Imriss - the sooner I find the proof I need, the sooner I can find a place to wash up."

They found the harbormaster's assistant sitting on a stoop, wrapped up in his cloak, shivering in the cold and dark. He scrambled to his feet as they approached, and said through chattering teeth, "Where have you been? Andraste's flaming t-t-tits, I thought you weren't coming tonight!" He shook his head. "Nevermind, j-j-just give me what you promised and I c-can let you in."

"Very well - here is the first half of your payment." Varel held out a jingling pouch.

Imriss wrinkled his nose, but the smell did not stop him from taking the coins.

Ker looked at the shivering assistant, then shook his head and fished out a leather flask from a belt pouch. He uncapped it, held it out and said, "Git a bit of this on t' inside of ye, boy."

Imriss hesitated, but took the flask with shaking fingers and took a swig. His eyes widened in alarm, and he coughed, wiping the tears that started to stream down his cheeks with his free hand. "Maker, that was horrible!"

The boatman snatched his flask back before the assistant could spill it, and offered it to Varel. "It'll put hair on yer chest, boy!"

Varel could not refuse the courtesy without offering disrespect, so he steeled himself and took a cautious sip. It tasted like viscous - and vicious - varnish, and it was so sweet it was sickening. He managed not to disgrace himself as it burned down his throat like a rampaging army of crazed arsonists, and handed back the flask.

"Well, let us get on with it, shall we?" Varel said. His voice was only a little hoarse.

Imriss, still coughing, unlocked the door, letting them into the back corridors of the building. It felt eerie, moving through a place that usually bustled with activity; their footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards in rhythm to the bobbing of the lonely circles of the lantern lights held before them.

The assistant led them up the stairs to the harbormaster's office, where they waited once more for the door to be unlocked.

"What do you want me to do?" Imriss said. He looked around nervously, as if expecting a city guard to jump out and ambush him at any moment. It was clear he did not want to stay, but was unwilling to leave the man who held the other half of his payment out of his sight.

"You can stay out of the way," Varel said as he wondered where to start. He set the dark lantern down on the desk and opened the shutter, spilling a sliver of light into the dark office.

Ker glanced about at all the ledgers lining the walls with the suspicion of a man to whom the written word was a mystery. "I'll jest wait outside, eh?"

It was just as cold and dark inside as it was out, but Varel did not dare light a fire, for fear someone would see the light leaking around the edges of the shutters that protected the extravagant thick glass windows that looked out over the sea.

Now he had to figure out which ledger out of hundreds was the one the harbormaster did not want seen. They all looked identical, save for the older ones, where the color of their leatherbound covers was starting to fade. Varel thought back to that day, trying to remember what the book looked like. The harbormaster's desk occupied a prime spot in front of the windows, where the best view and best light were, and that day the autumn sun had streamed like gold across the papers and scrolls. The ledger bound in the gold and brown colors of Amaranthine had shone, so it must have been a new one.

Varel considered the harbormaster's sloppy nature and decided the man was probably too lazy to hide the incriminating evidence in any clever sort of way. He examined the bindings of the most recent ledgers, selected the ones for the months of Justinian, Solace and August, and brought the thick, heavy books to the desk.

While the assistant fidgeted, Varel turned the pages on the ledgers; first page by page, then selecting at random, then holding entire sections and flipping through them as he tried to spot any break in the pattern. His heart sank as he finished perusing the second book and started on the third, still without finding anything out of the ordinary. Would he be forced to go through everything with a still-new binding? There was still the desk, but if it had a lock, Imriss might not have the key for it.

As Varel slammed the ledger for Solace shut with more force than was necessary, a piece of paper fell out, and he cursed under his breath as he brushed his fingers along the floor, trying to find it in the darkness. Despite the risk, he opened the lantern shutter wider, and found it had drifted near the desk. A dark blotch that looked like a bloodstain caught his eye; he held it close to the light and peered at it.

Though the seal was not ostentatious, it bore what looked like a dragon or serpent in the poor light, a favored symbol of the Tevinter Imperials. 

"What is it?" Imriss said.

Varel folded the note back into the ledger and stuffed it into the sack he had used to carry the dark lantern. "What I was looking for, I think."

The assistant's expression contained both curiosity and relief. "Does that mean you pay me the rest now?"

"Yes." Varel held out another pouch, which was snatched with alacrity. "Now, if you do not want the harbormaster to notice the missing ledger immediately, you'll find me another one so that we can replace it."

Imriss took out one of the spare ledgers and they worked together in mocking up a reasonable enough copy. "What if he finds out?" he said.

It was a somewhat belated question, but it was a reasonable one, and Varel did not want anything untoward to happen to Imriss, even if he did seem a greedy man. A greedy man with a sick mother to care for. At least Imriss was still conscientious enough to stay at work, unlike the harbormaster.

"Ker?" Varel said.

The boatman loomed in the doorway at his call. "Well? Did ye find what ye was lookin' fer?"

"I think so," Varel said, hefting the sack. "Would your cousins be willing to take Imriss in if he needed somewhere safe to stay?"

"What about my mother?" Imriss said. "She's sick, I can't leave her alone."

Had the assistant not mentioned his mum, Varel suspected Ker would have turned down his request. The boatman scratched his chin as he considered the question. "Well, I s'pose he and his mum could stay there if need be. Ain't no palace, mind."

"I can pay for room and board," the assistant said meekly.

This softened Ker as nothing else would. "Aye, me cousins could use it."

"We should be going," Varel said, adjusting the shutter on his lantern. "Imriss, it's late - will you be able to return home safely?" The cold and snow did more than the city guards in keeping thieves and footpads at bay, but one could never be too careful.

"I think so," the assistant said, though he sounded uncertain. "But it's dark, and I didn't bring a lantern."

"I kin take ye in me boat," Ker said, which was quite magnanimous of him. "Why not?"

Imriss looked surprised at the offer. "Thank you. It's very kind of you to offer."

The assistant glanced around to make sure nothing looked amiss, moved a few scrolls and pieces of parchment Varel's lantern had displaced, then followed them out to lock the door again.

Ker held his lantern aloft as he followed the assistant back downstairs. "But ye'll sit downwind, Varel, if ye don't mind."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel returns to Vigil's Keep and learns the late Arl Howe's most bitter enemy will be the new ruler of Amaranthine.

Varel rubbed the chilblains on his hands as he and Jacob stood at the tail end of the long line of poor folk waiting for alms at the Vigil's east gate. It was cold enough that he had wrapped Jacob in both the blankets that had served them as bedrolls. The Maker only knew what Rullens and the housekeeper would do to him if Jacob took ill from this adventure.

His disguise as a poor boatman allowed him to listen to the others gossip. They looked like refugees not native to the arling, and their conversations consisted mostly of complaints about the cold weather, the darkspawn, what - and whom - they had left behind, and their worries about the future. None of them touched on the city's troubles - certainly not the one that had led to him and Jacob standing out there with them now.

What he heard filled him with unease; though the victory at Denerim seemed to be common knowledge, the rumors circulating along the line suggested the rest of Ferelden was in chaos. Many no longer knew if their little villages and towns still existed. This was not surprising, but it was worrying. He shook off the thoughts as the line shuffled along; the delegation from the palace would bring more reliable news soon, and there were more than enough woes in the arling for him to deal with.

He turned his attention to the outer courtyard instead, and he was pleased to see Rullens had not allowed things to fall to shambles in his absence: snow and other litter had been swept away, not only from the courtyard, but also all along the road down to the Pilgrim's Path, alert sentries patrolled on the walls, and the market stalls, closed for the evening, were neat and tidy. As the line moved up, Varel could see the same was true of the inner courtyard beyond the person dispensing alms.

The duty of almoner should by rights fall to the Revered Mother in residence, but since they lacked one, it was now left to a servant. A pleasant enough task in warmer weather, it was an onerous one in winter. Today it was Adria, swathed in her thickest clothes and cloak, at the gate. Her mabari, dressed in a fetching leather-and-wool outfit to help keep it warm, sat beside her.

She wrinkled her nose as she held out at arm's length a platter containing a few sad trenchers soaked with gravy and grease, two candle ends, and a lonely lump of tallow.

Except for a few sketchy washes using the cousins' half-barrel, and the somewhat involuntary drenches the sea provided in its fickle generosity, he had not bathed in the days he had been away in the city. And despite his care, some small accidents had occurred when he was pressed into Ulla's night soil collection service, so he could not fault her for her reaction.

Varel pulled down his scarf. "Hello, Adria. Have you been keeping well?" he said, and was hard-pressed not to laugh at the woman's astonished expression.

Adria gaped. "Seneschal? I haven't seen you for several days! What are you doing out here?" She glanced down. "Jacob! Where have you been, you fool boy?"

"Now, Adria, don't scold him - he was with me."

Jacob, deciding discretion was the better part of valor, hid behind Varel and stuck his tongue out at her. She gave Varel a look that suggested he had long forgotten the sorts of mischief young boys could get into if someone did not watch them like a hawk.

Varel clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll have you know Jacob made a tidy profit running errands in the city." He nodded at the stairs to the inner courtyard. "Now, humor me and pretend you are taking me to the kitchens, please."

Adria was bemused by the request. "Well, all right. I have to take all this back in anyway."

The guards paid no attention to them beyond a cursory glance; a woman who had worked at the Vigil for decades, and two bedraggled beggars, one of them a boy, were no threat to them. And, of course, there was the dog. Behind him, he could hear the mabari's claws ticking on the stone.

They had no trouble reaching the bustling kitchens; after the cold, it felt like he was walking into a solid wall of heat. Smart enough to know what would happen if the housekeeper caught it in her kitchens, the mabari waited outside. Varel felt safe - and warm - enough to pull off his hood and scarf. With the supper hour upon them, no one was paying them any attention.

"Thank you, Adria," he said. "Now I had better take a bath and get back into my armor before Sandis sees me and makes me run a lap or three down the Pilgrim's Path."

She grinned, because he was not joking. "I imagine you'd like supper, as well. And Jacob?"

"He needs food and a bath, too," Varel said, smiling when Jacob grimaced at the idea of the latter.

"Adria, you know better than to bring that beast in here!" The housekeeper spotted them at that moment. "Varel, ye're back!" With the speed of a woman who had raised three sons, she grabbed Jacob by the collar. Her face screwed up in disgust when she saw how dirty it and the boy was. "Maker's breath, did t' both of ye fall face-first inta t' privy? Git outta me kitchens! Now!"

Even the queen would have obeyed that command with alacrity; Varel's back straightened in sheer reflex, before he knew what he was doing. Adria was drafted for the job of cleaning up Jacob, who was dragged off in one direction, while Varel was allowed to escape under his own power in the other. He felt a vague guilt, abandoning the boy like that, but he knew when to make a strategic retreat before the losing battle turned into a rout. He stopped by his office to put the ledger away in a safe place, and went to the bathhouse.

After bathing and changing back into his armor, and feeling much refreshed thereby, Varel came down to the dining hall for supper. Rullens came in, looking around until he spotted Varel.

"Varel!" Rullens said as he sat down beside him. "The housekeeper told me you were back. And looking well. Good to see the boatmen didn't slit your throat and throw you in the sea."

A boy came along with a tray and put down bowls of pease porridge in front of them, as well as a basket of bread.

"No need to sound so disappointed," Varel said as he cut a loaf with his belt dagger and handed half of it to Rullens. It was still warm from the ovens, and smelled wonderful.

"This is no time for your wit," the captain said with a frown. "I was about to send a search party to look for you in the city. A royal courier came from Denerim yesterday, said Grey Wardens have come all the way from Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderfels, and they'll be accompanying the official delegation led by Ser Cauthrien. I've been beside myself, wondering what to do."

"We do the same thing we always do when receiving important guests - leave it to the housekeeper." Varel wondered at the anxiety in the younger man's voice. That could not be the only thing bothering Rullens. "What is it? More darkspawn sightings?"

Rullens's voice grew hushed. "Worse. Maybe. A scout saw them fighting each other - in broad daylight." His voice lowered to a bare whisper. "And she... she swears she heard them speak."

"What!" Varel lowered his voice when several soldiers at the same table looked up at his outburst. "Your scout must have been drunk."

Rullens shook his head. "I wish she was, but Danella's one of my best. She did get drunk, but only after she was off duty, not that I blame her."

"Where did she see them?"

"In the Knotwood Hills, near the old dwarven quarry."

Varel bit down on a piece of bread with more force than was necessary. "They are getting bolder."

"I know, and I'm not sure what else I can do," Rullens said as he gave his bowl of pease pottage a glum look before dipping a piece of bread into it. "I told her to keep her mouth shut, of course, because Maker knows we don't need a panic right now. I've been wanting to tell someone for days, only there was no one here I trust to be discreet, and you were in the city."

"Take heart: these Grey Wardens seem to have come in answer to my message." Varel could not see how his message could have reached them if they had come from the Anderfels, but perhaps they had been staying at the palace. There was likely a reasonable explanation. "Surely they will know what to do." He bit off _I hope_.

"Which is why we can't afford to offend these visiting Grey Wardens - we need help from people who know how to deal with these monsters."

"They are certain to be escorted by royal guards - perhaps even by Maric's Shield, if Ser Cauthrien is in command - so they will hardly have any trouble on the road. I am glad Ser Cauthrien will be accompanying them; there are things I must urgently discuss with her."

Rullens seemed glad of the change in subject. "Sorry, here I am going on about my woes and not letting you get a word in edgewise. Did you find what you were looking for in the city? Is that what you want to discuss with her?"

Varel looked around at the busy tables and shook his head. "Not here."

The captain raised his brows at Varel's grim tone. "Your office, then."

They finished their suppers with the efficiency of soldiers, not speaking until they were in Varel's office, with the door locked. Varel took out the ledger and showed Rullens the entries and the incriminating note.

"I think this is conclusive evidence that the Tevinters are holding slaves in one of their warehouse," Varel said.

Rullens's reaction was not what Varel had expected or hoped for. "Why do you care? It's a filthy business, to be sure, not to mention illegal, but we have much more important things to worry about than slaves -"

"For six months, _I_ was a slave."

Rullens reddened. Varel reined in the rest of what he might have been about to say; the target of his anger was dead, and it was unfair to take it out on the other man. Nor would it be wise to antagonize him; only a rational discussion would move the pragmatic captain, not appeals to his conscience or piety.

"As you say, we have much more important things to worry about," Varel said in a more reasonable tone. "Such as a foreign military force of unknown strength and capabilities in the city, right at our backs. They have their own ship, as well."

The captain opened his mouth, then closed it when he realized Varel was not suggesting some daft rescue effort. He had to take a moment to readjust before saying, "That's a very good point, but is it wise for us to interfere? That's the duty of the bann, and one ship hardly constitutes an invasion force."

"This is what I hope to discuss with Ser Cauthrien. If she agrees, then it is no longer a matter of interference or a question of jurisdiction, but one of security." Varel hesitated, then said, "I also cannot help but think that reporting this would make a good impression on the queen - and the new king - not to mention the other Grey Warden, who has reason to dislike and distrust us. She has the favor of both, and one word from her could poison them against us, and we have troubles enough without that."

"Oh. Now _that_ is something to bear in mind," Rullens said, who was not without experience when it came to nobles carrying grudges. Their liege lord had been a champion grudge holder. "Surely reporting it is enough?"

Varel just gave the other man a look. "I think reporting that we also did something about it would count for much."

Rullens looked irritated, but did not disagree. "So what is it you want of me, besides showing me what you found?"

"If I can persuade Ser Cauthrien to take action, would you be willing to provide her with reinforcements? She is unlikely to bring more than an escort with her."

Rullens considered the question for a few moments; Varel knew he had won when he said, "I suppose we could use this to blood the new recruits, though we'd better hope we can box them in - street-to-street fighting is the worst kind."

"I have an idea or two for that, but we should wait until Ser Cauthrien arrives before we make any further plans. Still, it would not hurt to see who on the roster would be suitable for such an adventure."

"You'd better hope Ser Cauthrien's willing to go along with your plan," the captain said with a wry grimace. "I'm not minded to beard any Tevinters in Bann Esmerelle's lair on just your threadbare authority."

That was not an unreasonable complaint. Varel, as the seneschal, was supposed to derive his authority from his liege lord, and since they lacked one, he only had a fragile cover in the form of an appointment made by a representative of the queen - whose own legitimacy was shaky, since her husband was killed at Ostagar. All he could do was keep existing contracts and agreements working as smoothly as possible, so that the arling did not fall into further chaos, but he could not arrange new ones. No one had yet challenged him, but it was only a matter of time. It was an untenable situation, and one that would remain so until their new arl or arlessa arrived.

* * *

It was in this thoughtful frame of mind that Varel waited to receive the delegation from Denerim in the outer courtyard two days later, on a cold, cloudy day that threatened more snow. It was early enough in the morning that the great forest south of the Vigil was still shrouded in shadow, the Pilgrim's Path like a broad, pale ribbon that had unrolled itself below the fortress.

In an echo of the event that had started it all, he saw Ser Cauthrien leading a contingent of Maric's Shield, flying the royal pennant, out of the Wending Wood once more. At their side trotted a line of mabari, moving in as disciplined a column as their two-legged partners on their horses. As they neared, he saw that some considerable effort had been taken to polish her battered armor, but no amount of scouring could hide some of those dents. Though it had only been a few months since he had last seen her, she looked like she had aged years.

Despite that, she seemed as vigorous as ever, refusing to use the stool a groom had brought out by sliding down out of the saddle.

Varel bowed; beside him, Rullens did the same. "Welcome back, Ser Cauthrien," Varel said, and gestured to Rullens. "This is Rullens, the new captain of the guard."

"Seneschal, Captain Rullens," Cauthrien said with a nod. "I'm sorry for the loss of Captain Lowan. I did not know him long, but he did his duty well and without complaint." Varel had the feeling this was high praise, coming from her.

It was unlikely to assuage his wife's grief or that of his children, but Varel could not say so. "Thank you for your kind words, ser," he said instead.

Behind her, hidden until now by the first rank of knights, were two who did not wear the armor of Maric's Shield. "These are the two Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt Fortress," Cauthrien said.

The man, who looked to be about Varel's age, whose face was marked by a striking set of scars, wore worn but well-kept light armor. He sat atop a curiously small horse, almost the size of a pony, compared to the heavy armored horses of the Orlesian chevaliers Varel was most familiar with, shorter than the mounts the escort rode. It was also armored in the same fashion as the rider, which should have looked ridiculous on something of that diminutive stature, but it was not.

As if it could hear his thoughts, the horse stretched out its head and bared huge yellow teeth at him, prompting Varel to take a prudent step back. Wrenching his eyes away from what was surely unholy equine malevolence lurking in those brown eyes, he bowed and said, "Welcome to Vigil's Keep, sers."

The elf dismounted with the assistance of the mounting stool and a groom, but the man sneered at the help and sprang out of the saddle. He took charge of his saddlebags and gear himself, while his companion was content with leaving her belongings in the care of another groom, keeping only her staff. Unlike her companion, she wore plain, unornamented robes, covered in dust at the moment, not armor. Was she a mage? She did not look old enough to need a staff for support.

"My name is Fiona, and this is Petrus," the elf said, her words flavored by a faint Orlesian accent.

"Lady Fiona, Ser Petrus -" Varel said, but stopped when the woman held up a hand. It had a remarkable number of calluses for a hand that belonged to a mage, he noted.

"No lady, I," Fiona said, more amused than annoyed as she corrected him. "I am just Fiona, and Petrus here would laugh himself sick at being called a 'Ser' anything."

Varel glanced at the man, whose hard, craggy face looked like it would break into pieces if it ever smiled, much less laughed, and cleared his throat. "I am Varel, the seneschal, and this is Rullens, captain of the guard."

After the courtesies were observed, Varel said, "Would you care to follow me to your chambers? If you have come all the way from the Anderfels, I am sure you would like to refresh yourselves after your journey."

"I must take care of my horse first," Petrus said, speaking for the first time. He spoke the King's Tongue with a much heavier accent that sounded harsh to Varel's ears.

"The grooms can do that, ser," Varel said, but stopped when Fiona shook her head.

"Just show him to an empty stall and leave him be," she said as she shot an exasperated but affectionate glance at Petrus. "He won't allow anyone else to tend to his precious horse."

Given the horse in question was still directing the evil eye at Varel, he thought that was just fine with him, and certainly with the grooms. "Do as she says," he said to them.

Experienced with fractious warhorses and the showy, high-strung palfreys Arl Howe had favored, the grooms looked relieved at the order, and led the Grey Warden and his mount to the stables. Petrus had the bowleggedness of a man who had spent much of a lifetime on a horse.

"Pardon me, but I should make sure Ser Cauthrien's soldiers get settled in all right," Rullens said. "I'll bring Warden Petrus up with me when he's finished putting up his horse."

Cauthrien directed her second to keep an eye on the rest of her escort, retaining only two for her bodyguard. Only after the soldiers dismounted and followed Rullens did Varel see the small mule-drawn wagon, holding some barrels, being guarded by the delegation's mabari.

Fiona saw what he was looking at and said, "Ah, please put these somewhere safe."

"Are they, er, wine barrels?"

The elf's lips twisted into something too cynical to be a smile. "Hardly. They contain something much more dangerous."

Varel took a cautious sniff. It was true they did not smell like wine or beer, but then well-sealed casks would not smell of anything but aged wood. When he looked to Cauthrien, she gave him a shrug; she did not know what their contents were, either. He had some of the grooms put them in an unused underground storage room, far away from the root and wine cellars, while the kennelmaster took charge of the mabari hounds.

Cauthrien allowed Varel to lead her, her two guards, and Fiona into the keep, where Fiona expressed pleased astonishment upon being told the Vigil had a bathhouse. Behind the elf, the knight rolled her eyes; he managed to keep his face straight.

Rullens and Petrus caught up with them in just a few moments; the Grey Warden must have been very quick indeed in stabling his horse, but he still insisted on carrying his own saddlebags.

"Oh, come, Petrus, there's a bathhouse here!" Fiona said, making a hurry-up gesture at her fellow Grey Warden.

Petrus gave her an amused look. "Orlesian hedonist."

The elf smiled. "I'll not deny that... Orth barbarian."

Varel saw them to their rooms, then led Rullens, Ser Cauthrien, and her bodyguards to his office, where refreshments, a basin of hot water, and a towel were already waiting for their guest.

Rullens shifted, impatient for the news, but protocol had to be followed. One did not badger a guest with questions until they had been offered - and partaken of - the Vigil's hospitality. They waited as she leaned her sword against the wall, washed the road dust off her face and hands, and took a sip of the mug of tea Varel had offered her. Fortunately for the captain's nerves, Ser Cauthrien came right to the point.

"Well, you've been waiting for months for this news, so I won't keep you in suspense," she said as she sat down, gesturing them to do the same. "The Crown has attainted Rendon Howe posthumously, and bestowed the arling of Amaranthine on the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Elethea Cousland has been named Commander of the Grey, pending the approval of the First Warden at Weisshaupt. That last is really more of a formality than anything else, given the immense distances between Ferelden and the Anderfels."

"She will be our new arlessa?" Varel could just picture the looks of horror on the nobles' faces at being told none of them were being given the arling, and had to suppress a vicious smile at the probable reaction of Bann Esmerelle. Once she heard the news, they could probably hear her outraged shriek all the way in Denerim.

"Yes," Cauthrien said, unaware of Varel's malicious glee.

"Wait, isn't it customary to hold a tournament in order to find a new claimant when a line died out or the closest living relative is unsuitable, for whatever reason?" Rullens said. "Whoever wins through skill of arms takes the title."

Shaking off the beguiling vision of flabbergasted nobles, Varel said in a dry tone, "I think defeating the archdemon is a deed more than worthy enough to prove her skill, even if you leave aside everything that led up to it. It would be hard to top that."

"It seems the Crown agreed, and announced the decision to the surviving nobles after the battle," Cauthrien said. There was respect she seemed to begrudge in her tone. "There were no dissenters."

"When will she arrive to take up her duties?" Varel said.

"Probably not until Justinian or Solace," was the knight's disappointing answer. "She is temporarily attached to the royal court as one of the new king's advisors while she is recovering from injuries sustained in the battle against the archdemon."

They had received the news of the coronation of the new king, of course, but no one had mentioned the Grey Warden was wounded. Varel would have liked to attend the once-in-a-lifetime event - well, twice in his lifetime - but duty had come first.

"I imagine she will also want to spend time with her brother, the new teyrn of Highever, as well, all of which means she won't be here any time soon," Cauthrien said. 

Varel felt relieved that Arl Howe had not succeeded in murdering the Cousland heir, though mentioning it would be impolitic. "Fergus Cousland is alive? That is good to hear."

"He's alive, if a bit battered. In fact, he's in better shape than his sister at the moment." Cauthrien shrugged. "Even if she were recovered, you would still have to wait, since she and the teyrn will both be attending the royal wedding."

Varel and Rullens stared at her. "Royal wedding?" they said, almost in unison.

Cauthrien nodded. "Queen Anora will be officially betrothed to King Alistair on Wintersend, and they will wed on Summerday. The palace is an absolute madhouse right now, what with all the preparations, and will be for some time." Her expression said she was glad to get away, however briefly.

"I am not surprised - it will be the most important social event in Ferelden since the wedding of King Maric and Queen Rowan, a generation ago," Varel said. He pitied whoever had to keep track of all the dignitaries and their security arrangements.

Rullens was too pragmatic to dwell on things like romance and sentiment. "That still leaves us without a proper liege-lord for several months."

Varel hesitated, then said, "There have been scattered reports of darkspawn sightings in the arling, and I fear they are only the first harbingers of further disasters." He did not mention talking darkspawn; they did not need the commander of Maric's Shield thinking they were mad.

Cauthrien looked taken aback by the news; perhaps she had not been informed. "So it's true the darkspawn have not returned to their underground lairs? Well, then you should be glad to know Queen Anora and King Alistair have invited the Grey Wardens in Orlais to send a detachment here in the meantime."

Rullens frowned. "Orlesians?"

"Orlesian _Grey Wardens_." The knight twitched her shoulders in an irritable shrug. "I like it no better than you do, but you did ask for help. Since Ferelden only has two Grey Wardens left, one of them now king, the other injured, the Orlesian Wardens are the best you're likely to get."

"Oh. I thought these Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt were staying," Varel said, disappointed.

"No, I'm afraid not," she said. "Apparently they send out an observer every few years to all the Warden-Commanders in every nation to gather news, after which they report back to Weisshaupt." She looked dubious. "Though I'm not certain what, exactly, two foreign Grey Wardens can do."

Varel was not sure, either, but reminded himself of what Ferelden's own surviving Grey Wardens had accomplished. "We cannot afford to turn away any help."

"Well, when will the Orlesian Wardens arrive, then?" Rullens said. It was a reasonable question.

"Not for some months," she said as she bit into a pastry.

"That long?" Varel said in some dismay. "It does not take that long to travel from Orlais, even in winter. Though I suppose weather in the Frostbacks this season can be vicious."

Cauthrien frowned down into her mug. "I hate to speak ill of the dead, but to say that the Empress of Orlais was a bit miffed at Teyrn Loghain's refusal of her offer of troops is like saying the Amaranthine Ocean is a little bit wet. Nothing's been said, at least not to me, but I suspect she's not above making us cool our heels for the insult."

"Is there any chance of obtaining the help of the army?" Rullens said.

"Very little, and certainly not when all you have reported are sightings of darkspawn. We are still in the middle of rebuilding our forces in the wake of the Blight." Cauthrien paused to sip her tea before going on. "Some at court fear the Orlesians may strike just when we are weakened, and we dare not give the appearance that we are less than ready to repulse an attack."

Varel took that to mean that they had very little army left, after Ostagar and the civil war and the battle in Denerim. "Of course." The irony that Loghain had abandoned the very army that might have given the Orlesians pause was not lost upon him, and not, by the knight's expression, on her.

"You really think that bit of trickery will fool the Orlesians?" Rullens said with a dubious look. "They can count just like anyone else, even if they do it in face paint and masks."

"We'll just have to hope it will be enough," Cauthrien said. "I was too young to fight in the rebellion, but from everything I've studied about the Orlesians, they place a lot of stock in appearances. As long as we look too troublesome to conquer, they will convince themselves the effort would not be worth it and ignore the sword rattling of their more hot-tempered nobles."

"I agree," Varel said. "I think they will not trouble themselves while it is still winter - it would be impossible for an army of any size to cross the Frostbacks in this season. They would lose half of it to avalanches and the other half to Avvarian hillmen."

Rullens nodded. "You're right. Let the Avvarian hillmen deal with any Orlesians, then, and much joy of it to them both. But they invaded by sea before - they could do it again."

"The usual storms in the Waking Sea will prevent a naval invasion, but perhaps a word of warning should be passed to the new teyrn?" Varel said. 

"I will," Cauthrien said.

"And I will send a message to Bann Esmerelle." Varel would have to take thought on how to word the letter. The bann would take offense if the warning was too firm, and dismiss it if he was too vague.

"I know there was all that trouble about the regency and the civil war, but will Teyrn Loghain take command in the field, or has the Crown appointed a new general?" Rullens said. "Having the Hero of River Dane in charge of the army would give the Orlesians something to think about."

"Teyrn Loghain is dead," the knight said in a flat voice. She set her empty mug down on the table with nearly enough force to crack it.

Varel blinked. "Dead? You mean Teyrn Loghain is... How?"

She looked sad, tired, and oddly guilty. "He died killing the archdemon."

"He... he was a great man," Varel said, feeling hollow. The Hero of River Dane had been such a fixture in Ferelden's history and politics since the end of the occupation that his loss was hard to believe. Would people remember his exploits, or would history condemn him for a traitor?

"Well, so much for that idea," Rullens said, oblivious to their feelings. "Who now commands the army?"

"King Alistair," Cauthrien said, with no great confidence. Her gaze crossed Varel's, the thought clear in her eyes: there was not much of an army for the inexperienced king to command.

Varel refilled her mug with more tea, and thought a change in subject was in order. "Do you know how long the Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt will be staying?"

Cauthrien shook her head. "They've not seen fit to inform me. I suppose they'll return when they've finished observing whatever they're supposed to be observing. For myself, I will stay long enough to announce the news to the nobles of the arling, then I must return to Denerim at once. If you could have them gather here, I can tell them all at the same time."

"I will send out messengers at once," Varel said. "It will take some days for all the nobles to arrive, especially the ones who live in the more remote corners. Travel can be difficult here in the winter, and we had some snow a few nights back."

The knight nodded; she was a soldier who had traveled in all sorts of conditions, so of course she would understand.

"In the meantime I offer you the hospitality of the Vigil. Could I persuade you to take a guest chamber here?"

As he had expected, the knight shook her head. "I'll stay in the barracks, thank you, but I won't say no to a bath and a meal."

"Of course. If there is nothing else, we will see you at supper, then."

He and Rullens rose to their feet when Cauthrien stood; the captain left to escort her after she collected her sword and bodyguards, while Varel stayed in his office to write out the messages.

Varel's earlier malicious joy had faded to glum resignation, as the realization that Arl Howe's worst enemy would be taking charge of the arling sank in. The new Warden-Commander had every reason to hate anything and anyone associated with the murderer who killed most of her family. He wondered if her first order of business would be to purge those in key positions of authority at the Vigil, starting with him, like the Tevinter Imperial Archons did each time one rose to power.

The Revered Mothers were wrong; the Maker did have a sense of humor. And it was _vile_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel speaks to the Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt Fortress, and learns they can't help as much as he would like.

Sending messages to the various estates scattered across the arling used to be a simple matter of handing scrolls to pages and having the stablemaster issue them horses. Thanks to Arl Howe being declared a traitor, those pages resident in the Vigil had been snatched back by their noble families, as if treason might be contagious. Now Varel had to draft soldiers for the job, but most of their troops - recruited from refugees, for the most part - did not know how to ride well enough - or at all. Nor were they familiar with all the roads; he had not foreseen that would be one problem that would arise from recruiting outside the arling. That meant he had to take what few knights they still had away from their duties, but they were under the purview of the captain, not his.

He could give them orders without going through the captain, but he was not so stupid as to undermine Rullens's authority or antagonize him; he was governing an arling in the absence of the Warden-Commander, who had not yet confirmed his appointment. He needed all the help he could get. After informing the housekeeper the couriers would need rations for their journeys, he went off to find the captain.

Rullens was an agreeable sort, so he seconded his knights for courier duty and shuffled around other soldiers on the roster to fill the gaps without complaint. As the last messenger mounted his horse and rode off down the Pilgrim's Path, he gave Varel a curious look. "Why didn't you tell Ser Cauthrien about the Tevinters?"

"It is bad manners to badger a guest with a request for help when they are still covered with road grime. There will be time enough for that after supper. In the meantime, I should go see how our other guests are settling in."

"Perhaps you can get them involved with our darkspawn problem," the captain said. "Even if they don't stay to help, they can give us advice on how to deal with them."

"I will see what I can do."

As the Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt were a distinctive pair, it did not take Varel long to find them. They had climbed to the battlements, where they were admiring the view of the sea, despite the brisk, cold wind. Under a thick brown cloak, he could see Fiona had changed out of her dusty robes into a clean set with gold embroidery and fur lining the cuffs and hem, but her outfit was still much plainer - and more practical - than what he had expected an Orlesian to wear. Petrus had exchanged his armor and helmet for a gray cloak, but had kept his gambeson and sword.

Varel's eyes widened, then forced himself to stop staring at the king's ransom in quilted dark blue silk Petrus was wearing so casually under his cloak. Ah, of course, he should have realized sooner; the great silk houses of the Tevinter Imperium were famed all over Thedas, and given that the Anderfels was right next door, that would explain how the Grey Wardens could have had access to any. In Ferelden, those who could afford such protection were limited to wool and leather.

They turned when they heard him approach; Varel gave them a small bow. Closer to, he saw that Petrus had a small badge engraved with a griffon pinned to his gambeson. "Have the servants seen to all your needs, sers?"

"Yes, thank you," Fiona said. "The bathhouse here is lovely." Varel tried not to let his residual antipathy for Orlesians color her words with condescension.

To prevent himself from saying something inexcusable that the Grey Wardens would take as an insult, and either challenge him to a duel or decamp in a huff, Varel said, "Did you really come all this way from the Anderfels?"

"Petrus did. I was in Val Royeaux when he caught me up." Her lips quirked. "While not quite the epic adventure he undertook, still I would not care to travel through the Frostbacks during winter more than once."

Varel could not even wrap his mind around the distances involved. "That must have been quite the journey."

Petrus grunted. "It was easy enough with a good horse, using the Imperial Highway. Say what you will about those Void-spawned, power-mad Tevinter magisters, their ancestors hired artificers who knew how to build a good road."

"That road was constructed with the blood and labor of thousands of slaves," Fiona said, her tone dry.

"And no doubt some of them were my ancestors," Petrus said without rancor. "I think they will not begrudge my using what they built."

Varel was impressed. "Was it not dangerous, traveling alone by land? I have heard it is infested with brigands, and many sections have fallen into disrepair. Why not take ship from Minrathous?"

The Grey Warden shook his head. "Are sea storms and pirates so safe? The pirates I can handle, but no sane man thinks he can fight the wind and waves."

"That's... a very good point, ser." Varel did some quick mental calculations. "Maker's breath, you must have left while it was still winter!"

"Spring comes sooner to the north than to the south," Petrus said with a shrug.

"I'm not nearly as devout as you are, Petrus, but I'm certain false modesty is a sin," Fiona said as she eyed her companion with amusement.

Petrus shot her a mock glower. "You are a heretic and a blasphemer in comparison, Fiona." He turned back to Varel. "In truth, traveling during winter was something of a challenge, even for me, but seeing all the holy sites to Andraste has been worth it."

It seemed Fiona had not been joking about her companion's piety: there was a fire in Petrus's eyes and a reverence in his harsh voice that was at odds with his stoic demeanor. Varel would never have thought this tough, grizzled warrior could be such a pious man.

"There is a holy site to Andraste in the city," Varel said. "The Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer is where Andraste first revealed the Chant of Light and Maferath gathered the armies to march on Tevinter. I would be honored to take you there."

Petrus's eyes blazed with religious fervor. "I must go when I've the time to spare. One of the reasons I traveled so far from my homeland was to make a pilgrimage to the holy places in the south. I already visited the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, where I listened to the entire Chant of Light being sung over a fortnight, and touched the Birth Rock as I prayed in Denerim."

"Lesser men would have lain down in the snow and died at the mere thought of going on such a journey," the elf said with a sly smile that only broadened when her companion rolled his eyes at her.

"I'm told you were invited to stay at the royal palace in Denerim. Did you meet the new Warden-Commander? Oh, but I suppose her appointment must be confirmed first," Varel said, correcting himself.

Petrus snorted. "The First Warden would be mad to deny her the position, after all she has accomplished." Pain flickered across his scarred face. "Besides, young as she is, she is the only suitable candidate, after the horde wiped out all the others."

"There are the Wardens in Orlais, but I think Ferelden would not welcome a Warden-Commander selected from their ranks." Fiona arched an elegant eyebrow at Varel.

Varel could not deny it. "We Fereldans still have bitter memories of a hundred years of occupation. There would be many who would resent an Orlesian placed in a position of power over us."

Petrus sneered. "How fortunate for you that there is a politically acceptable Warden still alive, then."

Varel opened his hand to acknowledge the hit. "Yes. We are," he said at his driest.

Fiona looked pensive. "Her predecessor was a good friend of mine, but though I knew her only for a few short days, I believe she will do Duncan proud."

"I was wondering why she had not yet come to take charge of the arling," Varel said. "Ser Cauthrien told me she was still recovering, but I do not know the full extent of her injuries."

"Warden Elethea very nearly died fighting the archdemon. She is lucky to be alive," Fiona said. Her somber expression lightened. "But despite her near-fatal injuries, she is doing quite well. When last we saw her, she was pestering her attendants and demanding to be let out of bed."

Petrus grunted. "Tough girl," he said with approval. Varel had the feeling this was high praise, and that he did not give it often.

"And as a Grey Warden from the Anderfels who regularly patrols the worst of the Blightlands, he's not one to say that lightly," Fiona said.

Varel's brow furrowed at a belated thought. "Was she not accompanied by mages? Why did they not heal her?"

"There is much magic can do, but it cannot make up for extreme blood loss," Fiona said, with the air of one who spoke from experience. "It is not simply physical wounds she is recovering from, but also -"

"Enough, Fiona," Petrus said with a quelling growl. The elf shrugged and subsided; he turned to Varel and said, "These are Grey Warden matters, and not for the ears of outsiders."

"Of course, ser. I would not presume." After an awkward silence, Varel said in a lower voice, "I know you are only here as observers, but we have troubles of our own with darkspawn. We have only seen them from a distance so far, just a few sightings in the more remote parts of the arling, but I fear they will only grow bolder."

Petrus's brows drew down into a ferocious frown. "Yes, the king showed us your letter. That is why we are here instead of Denerim."

Varel saw the elf pull the edges of her cloak more tightly together when a particularly strong wind set it flapping; unlike the men, she wore no armor, and her robes did not really look thick enough to weather winter in Ferelden. "Perhaps we should be having this conversation somewhere warmer and more private," he said. "My office?"

Fiona looked grateful, though Petrus gave the view of the sea and sky one last longing glance before agreeing. Varel wondered if the Warden was homesick, or if he just preferred open space and clear lines of sight to the cramped confines of the fortress.

Once they were seated before the blazing fire in his office, Varel offered them goblets of hot mulled wine. "Have you any advice for us, sers? According to what little information I could find in the Amaranthine Chantry's archives, the darkspawn are supposed to retreat back to the Deep Roads after the archdemon has been slain. But they have been sighted aboveground, in broad daylight."

Petrus spread his free hand. "That is common Grey Warden lore, and the archives at Weisshaupt are much more extensive and specific than anything a Chantry so far away might have. Your letter worried us greatly, and we would have come here to investigate even if your king and the new Warden-Commander had not persuaded us."

"We don't know if we can help you, or even if we have any advice that would be helpful," Fiona said, a hint of her distress visible as a line between her brows. "This is as far outside our experience as it is yours."

This was discouraging to hear; Varel swallowed his disappointment along with some wine. "I see. That is... not welcome news."

"Have you been able to kill or capture any?" Petrus said.

Varel shook his head. "As I said, we have only had reports of sightings. They seem able to vanish into the very earth if one of our patrols spot some and give chase. One of our scouts saw them fighting each other in broad daylight in the Knotwood Hills, a great forest to the southwest of the arling." He hesitated, not wanting to sound mad, or make the scout sound mad, then said, "She said she heard them speak."

Petrus started, nearly spilling the wine in his goblet. "What? Say that again!"

"The scout heard them speak," Varel repeated.

Petrus's eyes widened in horror, as had Fiona's. He turned to the elf. "Maker's breath! It can't be -"

Fiona had gone pale, the color the wine had put in her cheeks drained away. But when she spoke, her voice was steady. "We never found them despite all our searching, Petrus. Most of the others didn't believe me after that - or thought I was mad. I know for a fact that they escaped - I hoped they died, after all these years, but -"

This cryptic exchange baffled Varel, but not enough that he forgot his manners or duties as the host. As there were few ills in the world that could not be improved by a cup of hot tea, he filled two mugs from a pot sitting on a brazier, added generous dollops of honey and a dash of brandy, and handed them to his guests. Their faces grew a little less pale and pinched as they sipped the hot brew.

"This must be reported at once to the First Warden," Petrus said after draining half the mug.

The elf made a derisive snort. "He's far more interested in power and politics than darkspawn. And why not? He is far, far away."

"I suppose these are more Grey Warden secrets you cannot divulge to an outsider," Varel said, managing to keep any frustration out of his voice.

"I'm afraid so," Fiona said, a hint of apology in her voice.

"But is there truly no help you can offer?" Varel said, looking at one, then the other, as he tried to find some scrap of hope or sympathy in their expressions.

Petrus shook his head. "Whatever you may have heard of Grey Wardens, I am only one man, and cannot fight darkspawn alone." 

Varel wondered why Petrus did not include Fiona. "What if you were to accompany one of our patrols?"

The other man thought this over, then shook his head in regret. "Were we facing normal darkspawn, that might be a sound plan. But if what your scout reported is true, then they are far too dangerous for me to risk your soldiers." He raised a hand when Varel began to object. "Not because I doubt their skill or their courage, but because they lack an edge only Grey Wardens possess. And if these darkspawn are led by what Fiona and I fear, then we will need every advantage we can get."

Though Varel had a great deal of experience handling nobles, all of these oblique hints and allusions to secrets were beginning to try even his patience. "I see."

Fiona must have seen the disappointment on his face, because she said, "There are things we can teach your soldiers, precautions you can take if the darkspawn do more than just show themselves on the surface."

"That would be a help, ser." Varel had read that darkspawn spread Blight sickness somehow, though the archives had been vague as to whether it was the shedding of their diseased blood in the water and land, affecting people and animals as if they had drank from a poisoned well, or if their mere presence was enough to do the same. Either way, the Vigil could not afford to lose soldiers to ignorance; they had few enough.

"You - your soldiers - must take care not to be led into ambushes," Petrus said. "The darkspawn have a certain cunning, and some are even smart enough to fashion crude weapons."

"They are dangerous in their numbers, in their relentlessness, and the corruption they carry," Fiona said, taking up the thread. "They don't tire, they don't need to eat, and they can see in darkness better than they can in light. Far better, as sunlight pains them."

"They cannot be reasoned with, or at least I would have said so before we knew of talking darkspawn." Petrus grimaced. "They will stand and fight until the last is dead. All this means they can more than make up for their stupidity. But despite their many advantages, normal people, if they don't panic and are prepared - can easily outmaneuver them."

"We must question that scout, but if you can show us on a map where they have been sighted -" Fiona paused. "Though it's clear to me even without a map that the Deep Roads must run under this place."

Petrus scowled. "The Deep Roads go everywhere. Blasted dwarves would dig tunnels under the ocean, if they could."

"I can show you maps, certainly," Varel said. "I do not know of any Deep Road entrances; I suppose I could ask my contact in the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, but -"

"I doubt surfacer dwarves would know," Fiona said, looking skeptical. "The ones living underground in Orzammar scorn them for having lost their stone sense, and I'm not sure they would tell them anything."

"Still, they must have maps, records," Varel said. "Their archives go back many years, perhaps even further than the ones we have here. They would be better maintained, I'm sure. And I know for a certainty they maintain ties to Orzammar."

"It is true dwarves throw nothing away, though I am not certain how accurate their records would be, after so many years," Petrus said. "But it will do no harm to ask."

"There won't be only one entrance." The elf had a deep frown on her face. "There will have been landslides, mines, perhaps even earthquakes that would have broken open the earth, allowing them to come to the surface. I don't know how you'll be able to find them all, much less plug them. If that is even possible."

"I can follow the darkspawn to their holes, Fiona, and -" Petrus said.

The elf's scornful snort cut him off. "What, all one of you?"

Again Varel had to wonder why Fiona was not including herself. Had Ser Cauthrien been mistaken? Unlike Petrus, she bore no insignia of the Grey Wardens on her person.

Her acerbic rebuke made Petrus deflate a little. "And first I would have to find them. It is easier in the Anderfels, where you can see for miles across the great steppes." He made a face. "From what you have described so far, Seneschal, these sightings sound almost like probing attacks, as if they were testing your defenses and responses."

"But darkspawn don't do that!" Fiona said, beating Varel to it. "The Blight is over - they should have lost whatever semblance of purpose the archdemon gave them!"

Petrus looked very grim. "It seems they do now. Perhaps something else is giving them purpose." Fiona paled, at implications Varel could only guess at. "How else do you explain these appearances aboveground and in daylight?"

Fiona's face grew pinched. "I can't, and you know it."

Petrus turned back to Varel. "Not looking into this goes against all my instincts, but we both have other responsibilities and cannot stay to investigate further. Fiona has business in Cumberland, and I must return to Weisshaupt at once to report. As soon as the weather warms enough for ships to safely cross the Waking Sea, we must find passage and go."

"Warden Elethea certainly has her work cut out for her." The elf shook her head. "At least she will have the help of the Wardens Orlais is sending, which is more than you can say, Petrus."

"It will be some weeks before the winter storms end," Varel said. "They're at their worst at the tail end of the season."

"Then we should make the most of our time here. The first thing I need is accurate information," Petrus said. "So I must speak to that scout before the details blur in her memory."

"That can be arranged," Varel said, determined to make the best of the situation. He could always question Danella as to what they had asked her afterwards, and glean what clues he could.

Yet could mere men walk where even the Grey Wardens feared to tread?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel is shocked when he learns of Teyrn Loghain's fall from grace, but it seems the sinister events he has been investigating in Amaranthine is unexpectedly connected to one of the Hero of River Dane's dirtier deeds.

Though he had been disappointed when the Grey Wardens told him they could offer little help, Varel did not allow that to deter him from the other task he had set himself. He might not know the secrets the Wardens had alluded to in such a cryptic fashion, nor did he have their specialized knowledge of darkspawn, but he understood human nature and human greed.

Rullens was supervising a line of new recruits as they clashed against another when Varel came back out into the cold, but it was clear he had been waiting for Varel, since he immediately turned over the exercise to a sergeant and approached with an anxious expression on his face. "Did you talk to the Wardens? What did they say?"

"They're very concerned about the talking - the matter we spoke of," Varel said, glancing around the busy inner courtyard. This was not a conversation he wanted anyone to overhear, and it would be easy to raise their voices in order to be heard above the noisy combat drill.

A look of relief passed over Rullens's features. "So they believed you? Good. I was afraid they'd pass it off as a story told by a madman."

Varel thought the captain's relief was premature, but it was not safe to say so where anyone could hear him. "They want to talk to Danella, question her for more details."

The captain nodded. "That makes sense, I suppose."

"Where is Danella now? Is she here or out on patrol?"

"Patrol. I'd have to check the roster to be sure, but I don't think she's due back for another two days."

Varel gestured at the barracks, where he knew the paperwork pertaining to the soldiers's tasks was held. "I'll need the logs or a copy of the logs, then. You did record her report?"

Rullens shot him an annoyed glance as they walked to the barracks. "Of course I did. Just because it made my hair stand on end and my skin crawl doesn't mean I'd neglect to write the incident down."

"I meant no offense, but you did mention a need for discretion, and anyone assigned to write the watch report could have seen it.

The captain seemed to grow less tense as he opened the door to the barracks for Varel. "Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you. The situation with the darkspawn has me on edge."

Varel waved the apology aside. "It has us all unsettled."

Rullens led him to the little room the officers and sergeants used for administrative tasks, like writing up patrol schedules and duty rosters. It was warm, and smelled of parchment. Instead of reaching for the thick ledger already on the desk, the captain pulled out another from a shelf and put it down, opening it in the light streaming from a high, narrow window.

"I wrote the report on the last page, which is why I wasn't worried about someone else seeing it." Rullens showed Varel the entry, then closed the ledger and handed it to him. "It's not much, but show this to them; maybe they can glean more from it, given their experience."

Varel tucked the heavy ledger under his arm, glanced around the room, and closed the door. Rullens raised a brow at seeing his caution. "They have more experience than we thought: they spoke of a darkspawn that talked, though they were circumspect about details. It was shock, I think, that made them reveal even that much."

Rullens looked disturbed at this news, and well he should. After Varel told the rest of what he knew, what little there was of it, he said, "I mislike this. If they've known of talking darkspawn for years, and now they have returned - or maybe they've always been here - where did they encounter -"

"We know too little, and the Grey Wardens are reluctant to reveal their secrets," Varel said, feeling once more his earlier frustration. "I pleaded for their assistance, and I even promised the help of a patrol. But Petrus was reticent to risk non-Wardens against the darkspawn."

The captain's brow furrowed. "Just him? He did not include Fiona? I thought she was a mage, with those robes and that staff. I suppose she could be a scholar, though I can't imagine why the Grey Wardens would recruit one."

"I don't understand it, myself, but nevermind that. I think, given time, I can persuade Petrus to go out with a patrol, as he seems a man of action, the sort who chafes when there is something he's duty bound to do."

"I know the type. Were he a younger man, I think he'd probably be out there already, tired from the journey or not." Rullens looked approving. "Good, we need the help, Maker knows, but we don't need more rash soldiers - we've got enough of our own without importing them."

"Fiona says she can teach us non-Wardens the practicalities of fighting darkspawn, should they stay still long enough to be fought, not just popping up to scare farmers out of their wits and disappearing again." Varel had a feeling that state of affairs would not last long.

"Now that would be welcome," the captain said. "I'll take some thought about how best to get that done and make the arrangements."

Varel fixed the other man with a stern look. "Make sure none of the soldiers offer her insult." For that matter, he had better ensure the Vigil's staff did the same.

"Maker, yes, I'd better do that. Right, you take the logs to the Wardens, and tell them I'll send Danella to them as soon as she returns. I'll go talk to the sergeants and make sure the troops understand."

Varel took the ledger back to his office, where the Grey Wardens were talking too quietly for him to overhear as they waited for him. They were disappointed to learn the scout they wanted to question was still out on patrol, but made a copy of the relevant entry in the logs to study.

"Captain Rullens will make the arrangements for you to speak to the soldiers, Fiona," Varel said. "And thank you for your offer. Few returned from the battle against the darkspawn horde in Denerim, and many of our soldiers are refugees who fled as they advanced north from the Korcari Wilds. What little we know about the creatures are from songs and tales."

The elf winced and waved his thanks aside. "You don't have to thank me. It's little enough." She rose from her chair, and brushed her robes and cloak straight. Neither of them had taken off their cloaks; perhaps northerners and elves felt the cold more keenly. "Come, Petrus, we've taken up enough of the seneschal's time; we should go and study this, either in my rooms or yours."

Petrus put up a hand. "A moment, Fiona." He turned to Varel. "I have not had much opportunity for proper weapons practice while on my journey. Given what you have told us of the dangers here, I've no mind to go out with my skills rusty from long travel. I was wondering if I could beg a space here to train."

"You are a guest of the Vigil, ser; you may do as you wish. I'm certain Armsmaster Sandis would have no objection. In fact, she might ask you to go a few rounds with her." That, Varel thought, would be a sight to see.

The Warden gave him a brisk nod. "I would be honored. It would also do me good to spar with your soldiers."

And so Petrus could judge for himself how capable the Vigil's soldiers were, the Warden did not say. A sensible enough course of action, as he would need to know the measure of the troops, should he choose to accompany them on patrol.

Lest the man be disappointed with the quality of the troops, Varel made haste to say, "Most of our soldiers were recruited from refugees who fled from the darkspawn, and they have had only a few months of training. I'm afraid they wouldn't be much of a challenge."

"Yes, I know," Petrus said. "Ser Cauthrien told us troops from Amaranthine defended Denerim when the armies were away. Very well, then, we will see you at supper. Perhaps tomorrow I might have the honor of crossing blades with you as well."

"The honor would be mine," Varel said, even as he wondered if he was fit or skilled enough to give a Grey Warden any difficulty at all.

He escorted the Grey Wardens back to their rooms, then went to return the logs to the barracks, and also to take the time to warn the armsmaster. Sandis would never forgive him if he didn't warn her a Grey Warden wanted to practice in the training fields.

To his surprise, the armsmaster's assistant told him she was not in the salle, but the armory. Varel went over to that long, low building, and found Sandis examining a sword in the light of the lanterns she had lit inside.

Sandis looked up at him and said without preamble, "We need a smith, Varel."

Varel sighed. "We need a great many things, Armsmaster, not the least of which is our new liege lady."

"Wait, what? Liege lady? You know who it is?"

He forgot he and Rullens were the only ones who knew, though the town criers would be spreading the news in a day or two. "I'm sorry, I've been so busy talking to the Grey Wardens that I forgot no one else knew yet. Warden-Commander Elethea Cousland will be our new arlessa."

Sandis's eyes widened. "Her! So she survived." Her lips stretched into a slow grin. "Well, well, won't that set the hound among the nobles."

"It will indeed."

The armsmaster frowned. "You know, she's going to want any soldiers who went to Highever turned out."

Varel realized she was right. "That did not even occur to me. Are you certain that's necessary? She won't know unless we tell her -"

Sandis stared at him. "Listen to yourself, Varel. This is a chance for us - all of us - to start over, and you want to begin with a lie?"

He rubbed his face, horrified that he could even think of concealing something from their new ruler. "I'm so used to hiding things from the late arl that it has become a bad habit."

"We all are," Sandis said with a sympathetic grimace. "And we're all going to have to break it."

"In any case, you're right, we cannot hide this, if only because she is bound to overhear the soldiers gossiping. Maker only knows what would happen if she recognized them. But I'm worried about losing some of our more experienced troops - we're shorthanded enough as it is."

The armsmaster shrugged her broad shoulders. "They might leave on their own once they hear the news, which would at least save us all the embarrassment. At least there aren't many of them left, after the battle in Denerim. As for how we'll replace them, we'll have to find and train up more refugees. Hate to admit it, but that was one of your better ideas."

Varel nodded. "They don't know the roads as well as a native of the arling, as I discovered when I sent out messengers to inform the nobles to gather here to hear Ser Cauthrien's news."

Sandis waved his concern aside. "Like fighting skills, that can be taught. Besides, you think a sheep farmer who's only ever been to the market in the nearest town knows every nook and cranny of Amaranthine?"

He opened his hand, conceding the point. "I'll tell Rullens to start recruiting again. But as for all the other things we need, I'm afraid we will not get them any time soon."

"Well, we'd better have a smith sooner rather than later, unless you fancy the thought of letting our soldiers get killed because their armor is falling apart. Right now, we've got men and women in mail shirts that're either too big or too small, shields with cracked rims, worn straps, bent buckles. There's only so much we can fix ourselves. You know as much as I that little things like that can mean life or death in a fight."

"I know, but for now, we will have to take those to a smith in the city," Varel said, glancing over at the empty forge. "We cannot afford to pay a resident smith right now - if we could even find one willing to come and work here."

Sandis scowled. "Well, now that we have a new liege lady, maybe you should ask her for help, even if she can't come here yet. I'm trying to find spares right now, see if we could replace the ones with damage that we can't fix. But sooner or later, we're going to run out."

Varel felt a deep reluctance to contact their liege lady, knowing it was both fear of her reaction and shame at what had been done to her family. If only the Crown had chosen someone else, anyone other than a Cousland. But Warden-Commander Elethea Cousland had been chosen, and he could do nothing but make the best of it.

"Set aside everything that we cannot repair ourselves; I would have to check our inventory to be sure, but I believe we have enough spares of everything. Have one of your assistants check what we have stored, too, to be sure they are all still sound."

Sandis raised her brows at him. "You're thinking of taking it all to the smiths in the city? How are you going to pay for that?"

Varel shook his head. "I don't know yet, but I may be able to persuade the Crown to release some funds, or ask the banker to extend a line of credit."

She looked dubious. "Easier to squeeze blood out of a rock than money out of a dwarf."

"That's my problem," Varel said, though he did not disagree with her assessment.

The armsmaster's expression lightened a little when he told her of Petrus's intention to use the training fields for practice. "Polite of him to ask first. You know, I would love to have a chance to spar with a Grey Warden. I've heard tales of their fighting prowess, and I've always wondered how much of it is true and how much is the fancy of the bards."

He had to chuckle at her enthusiasm. "You'll get your chance tomorrow."

Varel saw that Rullens was on his way back to the keep and took the opportunity to speak to him, glad he would have to leave the matter of the soldiers who had survived Highever to him.

The captain heaved a sigh once Varel had explained. "I must agree: they need to be sent away in deference to our new arlessa. I'll be sorry to see them go, if only because we won't have as many experienced soldiers left."

"It would be ill done of us to turn them out while it's still winter, and Wintersend is not that far off. Since the new Warden-Commander won't arrive until Justinian or so, they can stay for a few months. By then our new recruits will hopefully be better trained."

Rullens nodded. "Once spring arrives, they'll probably be snatched up by the nobles who lost their troops to the levies."

As he walked back to the keep, Varel thought of the other things the Vigil required: leather to repair saddles and tack, oil for the lamps and lanterns, and cloth. Aside from the very necessary repairs to weapons and armor, a smith also made nails, hinges, horseshoes, and needles; such items were small and often overlooked, but their absence was felt most keenly when needed. He looked at the walls and fortifications with a critical eye, and thought they needed a stonemason, too. The late arl had spent his funds on his treacherous schemes instead of the defenses of his own home, and it showed.

At least the villages and freeholds that looked to the Vigil for protection were still sending goods - food, mostly - but he wondered how long that would last. Besides, they could not provide everything.

Varel spent the rest of the afternoon in separate meetings with the captain, armsmaster, stablemaster, and the housekeeper, making lists of what they needed. It was his job to figure out how to pay for it all, but no matter how he juggled the numbers in the ledgers or moved the beads on the counting board, he could not come up with enough money. He was in a foul mood by the time Rullens came by to remind him it was time for supper.

The meal that evening was a trifle fancier than what Varel was used to, perhaps in honor of their guests: smoked venison roast, cut into medallions, covered in rich gravy; game meat was a luxury now, as the best season for hunting was now past. And instead of just plain bread to accompany the leek and mushroom soup, the loaves had bits of honey and dried apples baked into them. He detected the housekeeper's competent hand in these preparations, and hoped it would make Cauthrien more amenable to his request.

When Varel saw that Cauthrien had finished eating and was now lingering over her ale as she talked to her second, he caught her eye. "Ser, there is a matter I must bring to your attention." Beside him, Rullens paused with his tankard halfway to his lips.

She looked wary; since her lord had spent much time involved in the politics of the capital, she was perhaps right to be cautious. "What is it?"

"This is not something to be discussed here," he said, nodding at the soldiers and servants busy eating and moving around them. "Captain Rullens will also be joining us."

Her voice went flat. "I am the wrong person to curry favor with if you want to angle for a better position at the palace -"

"I assure you, it will be of great interest to you as the commander of Maric's Shield. It is, in part, a military matter."

Cauthrien's gaze sharpened at that; with a jerk of her chin, she stood, her two bodyguards and Rullens following suit. Feeling eyes upon him, Varel turned to see Fiona and Petrus watching them with interest from another table. Well, this was none of their affair; he was not obligated to inform them.

Once Cauthrien and Rullens were sitting in front of the fire in his office, mugs of tea in their hands, Varel said, "I discovered that a Tevinter ship is currently in Amaranthine, and it has been there for at least two months."

The knight tensed, an unhappy look passing across her face, as if reminded of something she misliked. "A _Tevinter_ ship? Here? Is that usual?"

Varel glanced at Rullens, but the captain gestured for him to continue, content to let him speak for them both. "No, it is not, though they are a more common sight the further north you sail. There is little here that would interest them, and there is nothing we export that they cannot buy closer to home. Or so I thought."

Cauthrien seemed unwilling to press him for further details, but made an effort to say, "What have you found?"

"They have abducted a few dozen folk, elves and refugees, who are being kept in a small group of warehouses near the docks."

She looked ill. "For what purpose?" she said, but something in her eyes told Varel she already knew the answer.

Varel looked her in the eye. "I suspect they will be sold as slaves. And there are enough lurid tales of the fates of slaves in the Imperium that I think they need not be repeated here."

Cauthrien twitched; Varel noted the tiny motion with interest. "Well? What is it you think I can do about it?" she said, her tone almost belligerent.

"Now, if I were to go to Bann Esmerelle and demand their release and reparations for seeing them back to their homes, the odds are good that I will be found floating in the sea before nightfall - if I were found at all. But if the commander of Maric's Shield, with the full authority of the Crown behind her, were to ask some hard questions, perhaps even take action..."

Her lips quirked. "Hm. I may have that authority, but I still must answer to the Crown. I take it you have incontrovertible proof? And how certain are you of this information? Did you see them with your own eyes?"

"No, but I do have this." Varel handed her the heavy ledger and the hidden note he had stolen from the harbormaster's office.

He had pored over the ledger until his eyes burned to find the entries, hidden amongst the more innocuous numbers for shipments of grain and leather and wool. Someone had tallied people as if they were of no more consequence than crates of cargo. Perhaps they had not known. Or perhaps they had not cared.

Cauthrien raised a brow when she saw the seal of the City of Amaranthine embossed on the leather cover. "Does the bann know you have one of her ledgers?"

Varel's lips twitched. "I... may have neglected to inform her."

Rullens rolled his eyes. "His memory can be amazingly selective at times. And yet no one really minds - well, except the nobles." He subsided with a wry grin when Varel gave him a dry look.

Cauthrien still had not touched either the note or the ledger in a show of reluctance that seemed out of character for her, which intrigued Varel. "Should I ask how you obtained these?"

Varel gave her his most bland smile and said only, "This note was hidden in here." He pointed at the clever slit in the ledger's binding.

She finally took the note and unfolded it, and frowned. "Wait, I recognize this seal. And this handwriting."

Varel's brows rose. "Oh?" Beside him, Rullens sat straighter.

Cauthrien set her mug of tea aside and went to Varel's desk, peering at the note as she held it to the light of the lamp. "Yes. I'd need to return to Denerim and compare to be sure, but I would swear these were written by the same Tevinters who kidnapped elves from the Denerim alienage under the guise of healers."

"What!" Varel said. Rullens made an equally surprised noise.

"I am not surprised you haven't heard anything, even in rumors," Cauthrien said as she put the note down on Varel's desk with care, as though forcing herself not to crumple it. "Events moved very quickly after the discovery, and then, of course, the darkspawn horde assaulted Denerim."

"How do you know they are the same?" Rullens said.

To Varel's surprise, she reddened. "I learned how to read late in life, but I remember the seal because it was a particularly gruesome one: a dragon devouring a child. This handwriting is also distinctive - see how spiky it looks?"

"So the warehouse in Amaranthine is their bolt-hole, perhaps," Varel said. "Or a combination of a bolt-hole and a second base where they could go out and find more 'merchandise'."

"We wondered how they were planning to transport them back to their homeland, but we found nothing. The Grey Wardens left none of the Tevinters alive for questioning, and any survivors no doubt deserted after their leader was killed. Though given how... thorough the Wardens were, I think it's unlikely any did manage to escape." Cauthrien grimaced, but at what, Varel could not say. "There was no time to investigate further, as the Landsmeet was called soon after, and then we had to prepare the army for the march to Redcliffe."

"I'm surprised they have not yet left, given the absence of the slavers and what must be a baffling lack of communication." Varel paused. "Then again, the winter storms can be quite ferocious. Perhaps they plan to overwinter here."

"The leader may also have been the commander of the entire expedition; the Grey Wardens said he was a mage, and the Tevinters always seem to put mages into leadership positions. Or they split themselves into two groups that could operate independently. That would make it harder to track their activities." Cauthrien scowled of a sudden. "If there has not been a constant watch kept on the Tevinter ship, then they might be taking them somewhere else."

"They have more space than they need, much more than the complement one ship can carry. I'm certain they are being held in those warehouses," Varel said. "We cannot rule out the possibility of yet another bolt-hole, of course."

"The Tevinters are trading in flesh far from their homeland - they'd be fools to be careless," Rullens said.

"Still, they haven't been caught in the two months they've been here, and it's possible they don't know what's happened to the group in Denerim," Cauthrien said, looking thoughtful. "You know how soldiers are - they can't maintain a state of high alertness for long. Perhaps they have relaxed their guard enough to be sloppy."

That sounded encouraging. "Have you decided to investigate, then?" Varel said.

Cauthrien picked up the note again and held it up as if it were something she had found squashed beneath her boot. "I must, to redeem Lord Loghain's honor."

Varel was confused, and, by his expression, so was Rullens. "What does Teyrn Loghain have to do with any of this?"

The knight hesitated, then squared her shoulders, as if about to face an unpleasant but necessary task. "I might as well tell you, before you hear wild rumors or unsubstantiated stories. The Warden-Commander may tell you what happened, as well." She smiled, and it was bitter. "But every story has two sides, and Lord Loghain is no longer alive to tell his."

"You need not tell us -" Varel began to say.

Cauthrien shook her head and held up her hand, interrupting him. "No, I must, because Lord Loghain is the one who allowed these Tevinters to operate in Ferelden in the first place."

Varel was shocked speechless. " _Teyrn Loghain_ did this?" he said in disbelief. "The man who first formed the Night Elves? Why?"

Cauthrien was startled. "You know about the Night Elves? Many have forgotten the role they played during the rebellion."

"I was just a boy when I joined the rebellion, but I helped fletch and carry arrows for them," Varel said, remembering those grim men and women who had risked their lives to strike terror by night into the hearts of the Orlesians and their Fereldan collaborators. He had never looked at elves the same way after that.

"I don't understand - why would Teyrn Loghain even tolerate this?" Rullens said.

"He expected to rule as regent after King Cailan died at Ostagar, but when Bann Teagan rallied the Bannorn in opposition, he needed money to raise more troops. The Tevinters offered him chests of gold in exchange for his turning a blind eye." Cauthrien's hands clenched hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "If he had refused, if he had hanged them at once as they deserved, this never would have happened."

Varel was aghast and appalled at how far the Hero of River Dane would go. "He allowed expediency to rule him instead of honor."

"Yes. As he redeemed himself slaying the archdemon, as his second, it falls to me to redeem his honor, as he is no longer alive to do so himself," Cauthrien said.

Caught between relief that Cauthrien agreed something must be done about the slavers and horror at a great hero's fall from grace, Varel was struck silent for several heartbeats. He saw the pain in the knight's eyes and said, "You blame yourself for his misdeeds?"

The knight's gaze turned inward, as if she were looking at memories of those misdeeds. "I was his second." _I should have been able to do something - anything,_ hung in the air, unsaid.

"You had to follow orders," Rullens said, and Varel knew he was thinking of how he had been forced to follow the late arl's orders. Like Lowan, he, too, had family that had been in the arl's reach. "You had no choice."

"Yes." Cauthrien shook herself out of her reverie. "Still, honor demands I do my best to cleanse his honor - and my own. This would be a worthy start."

"Not that we wouldn't appreciate your help, but are you certain the Crown will condone your actions, noble as they are?" Rullens said, turning the conversation to a more pragmatic subject, as was his wont. "Some might say you overstep your authority."

"For once I'm not worried about that," the knight said as she sat back down and took her mug of tea back, though the contents had grown cold. "King Alistair faced those slavers in Denerim personally, and Queen Anora would be as eager as I am to rectify her father's mistakes. I'm more worried about facing an unknown number of Tevinters with only my escort."

Varel inclined his head in lieu of a bow. "We are at your service, Ser Cauthrien."

Cauthrien drained the rest of her tea and set it aside. "That evens the odds, but there's a chance they might have a mage or two. They may even be maleficar, like the leader of the group the Grey Wardens faced in Denerim."

"Blood magic!" Varel had not thought of that, though he should have, and felt deeply unsettled.

"I wonder if the Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt would be willing to help?" Rullens said. "Fiona hasn't come right out and said or done anything, but I think she is a mage. The robes and the staff give her away."

Cauthrien looked dubious. "They're supposed to stay neutral, saving their energies for darkspawn. Besides, they're guests of the Crown. I don't think King Alistair would appreciate it if we got his fellow Grey Wardens killed."

"There are templars assigned to the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer in Amaranthine," Varel said. "They would be just as appalled by the presence of Tevinter slavers in the city as we are, and they are trained to fight mages. Perhaps we can convince them to help us."

"A good idea, but I mislike encouraging the Chantry to interfere in a strictly internal matter," the knight said. "It may set a bad precedent, and neither the Crown nor the Grey Wardens would thank me for it. I want to send for the mages assigned to the army, but we need them right where they are."

"We'll have to rely on the shock of a surprise attack to carry us through, then," Rullens said, though he was not entirely happy with this plan, to judge from his wince.

Cauthrien said, "We need a distraction. Several, ideally."

"You and I must talk to the boatfolk, Ser Cauthrien," Varel said. "They would be a great asset to our plans."

The knight looked bemused at the seeming change in subject. "Who?"

"I am thinking of the night soil collectors," Varel said, going to his desk and pulling out a map of the city. The others came to look over his shoulder as he unrolled. "Unlike the other areas, they collect from the warehouses during the day, because the merchants who usually rent them fear thieves may sneak in at night."

Cauthrien's face cleared as she caught on. "And no one pays any attention to them; the same cannot be said of us."

"Exactly, ser," Varel said, pleased she had seen the advantage at once.

Rullens sighed. "At least the cold will keep the stink down. It's a small price to pay for having the advantage of surprise."

"That will do for the ones on land, but... Has a watch been posted on the Tevinter ship?" Cauthrien said as she stared down at the map.

Varel shook his head. "No. My sources must keep close to the city and port, and it is difficult to see anything at night."

"We must capture that ship somehow," Cauthrien said. "We can't allow it to gather reinforcements or return to Tevinter; Ferelden has more than enough troubles of its own without a foreign nation kicking up a diplomatic fuss."

"Surely the Tevinter Imperium is too preoccupied with the qunari to worry about what's happening so far away?" Rullens said.

"I don't want to risk it," she said. "Though I'm not sure how we can capture it when we don't even have a ship of our own."

Varel's eyes roved over the map as he sought inspiration, then fell on the square symbol for the bann's palace in Amaranthine. "It occurs to me that we can involve Bann Esmerelle in this. Or at least for this part of the plan."

Rullens stared at him. "Are you mad? How can you be sure she won't inform them immediately, the moment our backs are turned? They couldn't have stayed in the city this long without her knowledge."

"We can play on her well-known greed," was Varel's suggestion. "We need to capture their ship, and if we give it to her on condition of having her troops reinforce us..." Ships were expensive things, and getting one almost for free might mellow the bann enough to pay reparations to the slaves. She might still scream, of course.

"Andraste's pyre, you're right!" Rullens nodded approval of this plan. "But I still fear alerting the Tevinters if we go treat with the bann."

"We'll secure the warehouses first, then tell the bann if we must. I've learned it's easier - and faster - to beg forgiveness than permission," Cauthrien said with the air of someone who spoke from experience.

Varel could not help but grin. "She is going to be _furious_."

"She's going to shit herself sideways, you mean," Rullens said with a malicious smile of his own.

Cauthrien shrugged with supreme indifference. "She won't have a leg to stand on once this gets out."

They made some preliminary plans over more tea and pastries, but the finer details needed to wait until Varel could get Cauthrien and Rullens together with Ker and Ulla.

"If our troops are to be at all effective in supporting your soldiers, we need to start training them together, and the Grey Wardens are bound to notice that," Rullens said. "I get the feeling that Petrus fellow doesn't miss much."

"Yes, it would look suspicious, especially when I told them I would be returning to Denerim right after I make the announcement to the nobles," the knight said. "All we can do is tell them the truth if they ask, and tell them to be discreet."

"We certainly cannot afford the ill-feeling if they find out we lied to them," Varel said.

"Indeed." Cauthrien glanced down at the notes she had written. "If there's nothing more, I need to discuss our plans with my second, and you need to send a courier tomorrow to Denerim so that the Crown knows of the change in plans."

They shook their heads; she excused herself, leaving the men alone.

Rullens's lips quirked into a mischievous smile. "Varel, you seem to have overlooked just one thing in all these plans of yours."

"What?"

The captain's smile broadened into a grin. "You'll have to ride."

Varel opened his mouth, then closed it. "Oh. Bugger."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Grey Wardens discover what Varel is planning, and demand to be let in on the plan.

The nobles had gathered two days ago to hear Ser Cauthrien's announcement, and left peacefully once more for their estates. Varel would not have been surprised if they had rioted over the news, but though there had been plenty of shouting and outrage and posturing, there was nothing he had not seen before. He would forever treasure the look of shock and near-apoplectic rage on Bann Esmerelle's face when she heard the arling would go to the Grey Wardens.

Under the guise of training in mixed groups, squads of soldiers went out to the fields below the fortress to practice maneuvers with the elite veterans of Cauthrien's entourage, but it was common knowledge the commander of Maric's Shield had stayed on instead of reporting back to the capital. Most thought she had been sent by the Crown to keep watch over the arling on the Grey Wardens' behalf, and both Cauthrien and Varel were content to let them believe that.

But it did not fool the Grey Wardens.

Returning after a profitable half-hour spent trading with villagers for ice to store in the Vigil's cold cellar, Varel found Petrus staring with dismay into the dark, unlit chapel. The servants kept the small, narrow room clean, but no fire had been lit, and it was freezing inside.

"Where is the Revered Mother?" Petrus said, turning to him. "Surely she is not traveling about in winter! And even if she is, why are there no sisters or brothers leading the Chant in her place?"

Deciding not to tell this deeply religious man his suspicions of the Revered Mother and her probable involvement in Arl Howe's treason, Varel said, "She followed Arl Howe to Denerim and never returned, and the sisters who were assigned here returned to the Chantry in Amaranthine."

The Grey Warden looked shocked, the first overt display of emotion Varel had yet seen on his face. "You have no Revered Mother in residence?"

"It is the right of our new liege lady to request another from the Grand Cleric in Denerim, but since she is not here as yet..." Varel spread his hands.

Petrus shook his head in appalled disbelief. "The lack of a Revered Mother in a noble household for any length of time would be _unthinkable_ in my homeland. What if you need spiritual guidance?"

"We go to the city, and no one minds if those seeking a moment of quiet contemplation come to this room," Varel said. His own belief in Andraste and the Maker was perfunctory at best, but that was hardly any business of the Grey Warden. Most now lit candles at the statue of Andraste in the inner courtyard if they wanted to pray.

Petrus glanced into the dark chapel again, then took Varel by the arm. "Disturbing though it is, it means we can talk privately in there without being interrupted."

"Ser?" Varel said in some bewilderment as he was pulled into the chapel.

The Grey Warden closed the thick oak door, and the man must have eyes like a cat, because Varel heard the scraping noises of a firestarter. As the flame caught on one of the tall beeswax candles sitting in a man-high candelabra, the fragrance of honey began to mix with the mustiness of an unaired room and the scents of parchment and old books. Varel wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself, and waited in uncertain silence.

There was a strong smell of horse about the Grey Warden; Petrus had relented and accompanied a different patrol every day in the short time the Wardens had been at the Vigil, but he always returned in a foul mood each time.

When Petrus still did not speak, Varel decided to dare to ask a question that had been weighing on his mind. "Have you had any luck finding the darkspawn, ser?"

Petrus made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. "Yes and no. Yes, I did sense them when I went about with your patrols. Sometimes near, sometimes far. But, no, I did not see any."

Varel opened his hand, in the hopes the Warden would elaborate.

The Warden growled like an angry mabari. "There are Deep Roads beneath Amaranthine, without a doubt, but without knowing where any entrances are, there is little I can do about them. Do you know of any?"

"No, ser," Varel said. He thought of the smuggler tunnels beneath the city, but it was obvious those were made by human hands. "There are stories of old ruins out in Drake's Fall, but you could wander around the wastes out there for days and not find anything but your death."

"They must be coming up to the surface from _somewhere_." The Warden shook his head. "I never thought I would ever say this, but I actually miss the Blightlands. At least there you can see the monsters coming. There is too much in the way here. Mountains! Forests! Hills!" His accusing tone suggested these inconvenient geographical features were somehow Varel's fault.

Varel felt the weight of the other man's glare even if he could not quite make out the Warden's face in the dim light. "You found nothing in the old quarry?" That was where Danella reported she had seen talking darkspawn fighting each other.

There was a heavy sigh from the darkness. "I did sense darkspawn very close to the surface there, a great many of them, but the way is blocked. It would take a small army of dwarves weeks to move the rubble."

"I see. Thank you for trying, ser."

Petrus dismissed his thanks with an eloquent snort. "I have not yet done anything to deserve your thanks. I am not certain there is anything I could have done except get myself killed even if I had been able to find an entry. What I sensed outnumbered me many, many times over."

Varel imagined having to report the death of an important guest of both the Vigil and the Crown to the king, and winced. That would be disastrous. "While I confess to feeling some disappointment at the lack of progress, I am glad you did not find any entry." He imagined the darkspawn boiling out, overwhelming Petrus and the patrol, and shuddered.

The Warden growled in frustration. "I feel helpless, and I do not like feeling helpless."

"I don't believe anyone does."

"There is another thing I do not like, and that is being kept uninformed." The lone candle flame illuminated only one side of Petrus's scarred face, casting the rest into ominous shadow.

"Ser," Varel said at his blandest.

Petrus took that as the non-answer it was, and his tone grew sharp. "I am a Grey Warden who has often patrolled the Blightlands alone, and there were days when my horse and I were the only living things that moved across the steppes. So forgive me if I speak bluntly. What is it you are planning?"

Varel had been wondering when the question would come up. "Nothing treasonous, I assure you, ser." He told the Warden of his initial suspicions, and his efforts in finding evidence. "Ser Cauthrien agreed that something must be done, and we have been making plans to raid the Tevinters' warehouses."

The shadows cast Petrus's lined features into an ugly mask as he scowled. "Why were we not told about this at once?"

"Since it has nothing to do with the darkspawn, this is not, strictly speaking, any of your affair," Varel said, apologetic but firm. "And our plans depend upon discretion, if we hope to capture them all."

Petrus grunted, a sound that could have indicated grudging agreement or indigestion. He turned, presenting only his profile. "Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The Warden faced him again; the candlelight revealed only part of his scarred cheek, but Varel could still see that it was drawn into a frown. "Why are you going to all this trouble?"

Because Varel had been a slave, forced to work until he had been too tired to even despair. Because Arl Howe was dead, beyond his reach. Because the refugees had fled from homes their families had lived in for generations, only to be tricked, captured, or betrayed when they came here. Because the elves had to sell their bodies to those they despised or feared or hated, just to survive. Because few remembered what the Night Elves had done for the rebellion.

Because no one else cared.

"Because it just isn't right, ser," Varel finally said.

Petrus stared at him for such a long time that Varel began to feel uncomfortable. "You could have come away from this a rich man."

"What? You mean blackmail the Tevinters and the bann? I would not live long enough to spend the coin." The very idea was distasteful in the extreme.

"Yet you are not a stupid man, I deem," the shadowy figure said. "You could have accomplished it."

"If I were that sort of man, we would not be having this conversation," Varel said, forcing himself to keep his voice even in the face of this questioning.

It would have been easy enough, starting from the very beginning of Varel's service; he had only to look the other way while Arl Howe progressed from theft to crime to atrocity. The Maker knew he had been tempted by the easy way often enough. But, no, that would not have been enough; he would have had to encourage and aid his liege lord in all his mad, treasonous schemes. The thought turned his stomach.

If Varel were unlucky, his head would have adorned a pike beside Arl Howe's; if he were smart, he would have fled to the shelter of another patron. Whether there was any noble powerful enough to shield him from the surviving Couslands' wrath was another matter.

The scars on the Warden's cheek rippled as he smiled or grinned; it was difficult to tell in the poor light. "Hah! True enough." His head bobbed in a curt nod, as if he had come to some sort of decision. "Is Ser Cauthrien here?"

Varel was bemused by the sudden change in subject, but said, "Yes, she is speaking with Captain Rullens in his office."

"Good. Now, let us go and find Fiona," Petrus said as he gestured for Varel to open the door, then snuffed the candle as the torchlight outside spilled into the room. "Then we will all go and speak to Ser Cauthrien."

"Er, why?" Varel said, as curiosity and polite manners pulled him into the Warden's wake.

"It is high time you included the two of us in your plans!"

"I - what? Ser!" Despite the Warden's bowlegged stride, Varel had trouble keeping up, even with his longer legs. "We can't ask you to -"

Without stopping, Petrus said, "You are not - I am offering. Though I haven't asked her yet, I am certain she will agree."

Varel had hoped that the Grey Wardens would offer their help, but this sudden enthusiasm took him aback, and he was starting to have second thoughts. "But you're both important guests of the Crown -"

Petrus sneered. "What do you take us for, useless Tevinter fops whose fathers paid for their titles and positions? I have spent most of my life fighting darkspawn, and Fiona is no frail Orlesian flower even if she looks like one. Though nowadays she moves in circles that can be even more dangerous than darkspawn."

Though Varel wondered how Fiona would really feel about being volunteered in such a cavalier manner, he said, "I must confess that I hoped you would lend us your assistance, but I thought you would be focused on the darkspawn to the exclusion of all else."

"I would be, if I could get my hands on the blasted creatures. Since I can't, it would feel good to finally have _something_ to thrash, after the darkspawn have proven so elusive." This last was said with such bloodthirsty relish that Varel wondered if Petrus really was a barbarian, and not just Fiona teasing him.

They collected Fiona from her room; she raised an elegant eyebrow when Varel knocked on her open door, but set aside the book she had been reading at once when she saw Petrus's expression.

"Come with us, Fiona," Petrus said as he beckoned to the elf with an impatient wave of his hand.

"What is this all about?" she said as she closed the door and followed them.

"All will be explained, Fiona," was Petrus's breezy reply.

Fiona just sighed. "You always say that," she said, but she followed them all the same.

Varel nodded to the two bodyguards stationed outside Rullens's office, and knocked. At the muffled question, he opened the door. "Captain, Ser Cauthrien, Fiona and Petrus wish to speak to you."

"Ser Cauthrien, I understand you are going to apprehend these slavers the seneschal found in the city," Petrus said as soon as the door was closed and secured. 

Fiona looked baffled, as well she should be, and her voice was plaintive when she said, "Wait, what? Can someone tell me what in the Maker's name is going on? I was reading a treatise on Ines's new herbal remedies one moment, then dragged in here the next! Without so much as an explanation!"

As if reminded that she was a guest, Rullens pulled out chairs for the new arrivals. As there were not enough for everyone, Varel leaned against the wall, content to listen and sip a mug of tea the captain had offered him.

A brief explanation was offered to the bewildered elf; Petrus waited, impatience etched across his scarred face, until Cauthrien was done.

Fiona's face hardened at the mention of slavers, her high cheekbones standing out like blades. "I have no love for such... filth. I would not have thought they would dare to operate in Ferelden."

Cauthrien winced. "Not... not normally, no, but the man who allowed this is dead."

The elf raised a brow. "Who was it?"

Since the knight seemed unwilling to answer, Varel took pity on her and said, "Teyrn Loghain."

Fiona's nostrils flared, as if she smelled something bad. "Ah. Him."

Everyone except Petrus looked at Fiona in surprise. "You've met Teyrn Loghain?"

"Briefly," Fiona said, her tone suggesting it was not a happy memory. "He was not fond of Orlesians, and made certain I knew it. Though to be fair, he was much more offended by that than by the fact that I am also an elf. He was very protective of King Maric, and seemed to feel I - and the other Wardens I was with, also Orlesians - would be a bad influence on him."

Impatient with this digression, Petrus said, "Well, now that you have the explanation you wanted, what do you think?"

Fiona shot Petrus an irritated look. "Something must be done, of course."

"I thought you would say that," Petrus said with satisfaction. He turned to Cauthrien. "Allow Fiona and I to accompany you."

This all took Cauthrien aback. "What? But you are our guests!" Her horrified expression suggested she did not want to explain to her royal masters that she had gotten the Grey Wardens killed.

"Strange, the seneschal said much the same, but slavery is an affront to Andraste," Petrus said. "I cannot let it be. Besides, you will find us both quite useful."

"There you go again, volunteering me without even bothering to ask my opinion," the elf grumbled, though there was a hint of a twitch about her lips.

Petrus shrugged, unrepentant. "Why waste time? I knew you would agree."

Fiona made an exasperated noise. "Well, yes, but that is not the point! You're supposed to _ask_ first."

This rebuke failed to impress Petrus. "We have to wait for the winter storms to clear before we can find passage to Cumberland, so it's not as if you don't have time on your hands."

The elf growled. "Not. The. Point."

Cauthrien looked torn between pragmatism and dismay. "It doesn't feel right, asking a guest for help -"

Petrus held up a hand. "As I told the seneschal, you did not ask, we are offering," he said, ignoring Fiona's mutter of _There you go saying 'we' again._ "We would be quite helpful to you. Fiona may not look it, but she is an experienced warrior, as am I."

After shooting Petrus one last dirty look, the elf seemed resigned at being volunteered. "It is likely they will have mages with them - perhaps even blood mages. I would be happy to help you deal with them."

"So you _are_ a mage, then, Fiona?" Rullens said.

Fiona hesitated, then nodded. "Is that a problem?"

The captain shook his head. "Some of our soldiers might be a bit skittish, but not me. I've had to work with the few Arl Howe hired. We could certainly use your help against any enemy mages, since we aren't going to the Chantry to request templar help."

At the Wardens' inquiring expressions, Varel said, "Ser Cauthrien rightly said that doing so might set a dangerous precedent that our new liege lady might not appreciate."

"Ah, yes, of course," Fiona said, and even the devout Petrus nodded, aware of the danger.

"We have mages assigned to the army, of course," Cauthrien said. "I was wishing I had one with me for this particular mission."

Varel shrugged. "As long as you cast any fireballs far away from my papers and office, we'll have no trouble." Fiona was nothing like the furtive, disreputable sorts the arl had hired; in fact, he suspected they were apostates.

"I am also not without experience in dealing with frightened slaves." There was a faint undertone of bitterness in Fiona's voice. "Slavers often do not guard their tongues in front of those they think are in their power. I may be able to coax important information from them."

Cauthrien looked hard at Petrus, then Fiona, and said, "I would be glad to have you on our side, but only if you would be willing to place yourselves under my command, and follow my every order."

The Wardens exchanged glances, then Petrus ducked his head in a stiff nod and said, "Yes." Fiona echoed him, though with more grace.

"I think you will both serve best in support roles," the knight said as she showed the Wardens the maps covering Rullens's desk. "Now, here's what we've planned so far..."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel joins the Vigil's soldiers, Maric's Shield, and Ser Cauthrien in the assault on the Tevinter slavers' secret compound in the City of Amaranthine.

**Guardian, 9:31 Dragon**

"You owe me three silvers and five bits," Varel said.

"Shut up." Rullens threw the dice again, and groaned as he lost. Again. "Oh, for the love of the Maker!"

"Make that three silvers and ten bits."

"Shut up."

Varel chuckled and tugged the hood of his cloak down lower as the cold wind pulled on it with icy fingers. Beside him, the same brindle dog that he had petted the last time he had been in the city put her head on his knee. He scratched her behind the ears, grateful for her warmth, and looked around.

He and Rullens were hunched in one of the less noisome alleys, a tiny cul-de-sac that overlooked the cluster of warehouses the Tevinters had rented. It was easy to see why the slavers had chosen those particular ones; a tall, crumbling wall, one that looked old enough to have been built by the Avvars to defend against ancient Imperial sea encroachments, surrounded the buildings, forming a separate compound from the rest.

There were only two ways in or out: sturdy wooden gates on the eastern side, and a wider one in the south that opened onto a pier, though that was not visible from their current position. Old canvas sheets hid the latter entry, but Varel was willing to bet that was where the Tevinters had stashed the barge they used to transport supplies to their ship - and perhaps more slaves back to their base.

Varel turned back to the game when he heard footsteps approaching them. In an effort to keep inconspicuous as they observed the target, he and Rullens were engaged in the first refuge of idlers everywhere - dicing - in the hopes that it would distract any watchers from the weapons and armor hidden under their cloaks. He did not look up as the sound of boots came and went without a change in pace.

It was the day after a sober Wintersend; Cauthrien had determined it would be the best time to take the Tevinters unawares, after they had celebrated and hopefully overindulged in their drink, and perhaps full of resentment at finding themselves so far from home.

There were only a few dockworkers up and about at this early hour; most of them seemed hungover, if he interpreted their squints, flinches, and subdued curses correctly. Despite the fact that it was the day after a holiday, the boatfolk were out already, their barges stacked high with crates and barrels. One boat in particular was being given a wide berth by the other vessels, even though it was carrying an innocuous enough cargo: rows of terracotta amphorae, tied together with thick ropes.

"Varel, it's your turn." Rullens held out the dice.

"You could have taken command instead of leaving Garevel in charge," Varel said as he took the dice. "Then your second would be the one losing money instead of you."

"He needs the experience." Rullens sighed when fortune favored Varel yet again. "You know, at this rate, I might as well just upend my money pouch into yours. If these weren't my own dice, I would swear you magicked them."

"I can rob you blind later," Varel said as he stuffed the dice into his belt pouch. "We've other matters to attend to."

A hint of relief crossed Rullens's face. "Ah, is it that time?"

"As you can see."

A plume of gray smoke was already visible to the west of the warehouses; Varel coughed as the wind whipped the acrid smell of burning hay towards him. There were cries of _Fire! Fire!_ as the saboteurs took to their heels, spreading the chaos even further. The boatmen had done their work well; they had positioned the haycarts where the winds off the sea would blow the billowing pall over their targeted buildings.

"They were a little too quick to fire those hay bales, I think," Rullens said, as the smoke grew thick enough to obscure their view.

"Perhaps, but not by much. Look, the decoy group is already at the gate."

There were three figures dressed in rough boatmen's clothes standing in front of the closed doors, each one holding buckets. Varel held his breath, afraid the Tevinters might bar the entrance and wait out the disturbance, but then the gate opened. Instead of exchanging the empty ones for the full ones left inside, the boatman in the lead swung his bucket at the guard, knocking him back with the vicious underhand blow, and ran in. The other two subdued the downed guard while their leader pulled the doors open.

The Tevinter sentries on the roof, distracted by the smoke and clamor in the opposite direction, were unaware of the forced entry, just as planned. Then it no longer mattered, because they collapsed, their limp bodies rolling down the shingles, but not before Varel saw the colorful fletching on the arrow shafts in their throats.

The crates and barrels on the nearest barges were thrown off, revealing Cauthrien's escort and the Vigil's soldiers, who had been hiding under them. The early morning light gleamed on their armor and weapons as they jumped off the boats and ran down the wharf to the warehouses, their boots thudding on the worn wooden planks. Dogs erupted from another barge at the sound of a piercing whistle, and charged the gate in a furry mass of lolling tongues and sharp white teeth.

Varel tried to spot the Grey Wardens, but could not see them. Fiona and Petrus had gone to Denerim to observe the Wintersend royal betrothal ceremony, and he was concerned they might still be tired from the journey. He did not know why the political and social events of a country so far from Weisshaupt Fortress would be of interest to them; perhaps their interest simply stemmed from the fact that the new king was a fellow Warden.

"Come, let's get down there," Rullens said as he stood, breaking into a jog as soon as he stepped outside the alley. Varel gave the dog one last pat on the head, grabbed his sword from where he had propped it, and followed suit.

By the time they reached the gate, there were two Vigil soldiers guarding it. The Tevinter sentry had been tied up with leather strips and dragged next to the buckets of night soil; the large purpling bruise on his forehead explained why he was not complaining about the smell.

"Make sure you keep everyone out, especially the city guards when they come to investigate," Rullens said. "I'll send you some reinforcements once we've secured the warehouses." The soldiers stood to attention.

There were shouts, dogs barking, and the sounds of weapons clashing further inside the complex. Varel took his sword off his shoulder, just in case; Rullens already had his mace in hand, his shield set on his arm. They looked into the first building they came to, but the vast space was empty.

"I should have told Garevel to post someone in every warehouse, in case they try to use them as hiding places," the captain said as he looked around. "Andraste's tits, it's like a maze in here!"

Varel could not help but agree; this particular piece of the docks seemed to have changed hands many times, a fact evident in the shapes and materials used for the buildings. The stone walls of one warehouse loomed above another of dilapidated wood, while yet another was built of brick, with narrow paths no wider than a cart separating them. The sun had not yet risen high enough to cut into the deep shadows pooled in the corners.

They turned at the sound of running footsteps, expecting their own soldiers or Maric's Shield, but instead they were confronted with three Tevinters in their ornate, feather-bedecked armor. Varel yanked open the ties of his cloak and tossed it away, but Rullens had no free hand to do the same. The captain saw how precarious their situation was at once, and, trusting Varel to watch his back, charged the enemy before they could be surrounded.

One of the Tevinters swung his sword at Varel; it hit his right gauntlet with a clang and enough force to numb his forearm as he deflected the swing. Varel stepped in before the other man could get his shield up and smashed the pommel of his sword against the Tevinter's helmet. Stunned by the blow, he staggered back, then fell with a clatter when Varel hooked the man's ankle with his foot and tripped him. There was a solid _thunk_ when the man's head hit the ground.

Varel flinched and ducked on instinct at hearing the hiss of an arrow, but instead of the explosion of pain he had been expecting, there was a surprised scream from one of the Tevinters trying to flank Rullens. An arrow had lodged in the narrow space between her gorget and her pauldron; with her arm injured, she dropped her blade and swung her shield up, unable to strike back but also unwilling to leave her fellow soldier's flank exposed.

The loud noises of the fight had attracted the attention of others; Varel heard them approaching from behind the Tevinters but was too busy to look up. Rullens was being pressed hard as the enemy crowded him, and Varel could not yet get past the woman's skilled shieldwork. Undeterred, Rullens rained strong blows down upon his opponent's shield as if he were beating a drum, leaving the Tevinter little opportunity to counterattack.

All of a sudden, the captain rammed his shield against his opponent's; braced for the impacts from Rullens's mace but not his full weight, the Tevinter staggered back. Varel made a feint towards the woman, then reversed his sword so that he held it by the blade, and drove the pommel into the armpit of her fellow soldier's sword arm in the brief moment she was not covering for him. The Tevinter's weapon dropped to the ground with a loud clank; he pulled out a dagger with clumsy fingers, but the look in his eyes was full of resignation. It was only a matter of time before they were defeated, and the man knew it.

The Tevinters gave up on pressing past them, turning so that they stood back to back. Varel and Rullens circled around them, looking for an opening, when Varel heard Garevel's voice.

"Surrender! Drop your weapons, now!"

The woman looked over her shoulder, then said something Varel did not understand; from the tone, he suspected it was pure profanity. The other Tevinter snarled, then stepped back and let his dagger fall to the ground.

Garevel propped his sword on his shoulder as he trotted up to them, leaving his soldiers to disarm and secure their new prisoners. "Sorry about that, Captain, Seneschal. Are you all right? We were chasing the three of them down when we lost sight of them in this blasted warren."

Varel caught his breath as he glanced at the soldiers, then at Garevel, and frowned when he saw none of them bore any sort of bow. "No harm done, I think, but who shot the arrow?"

"That would be me," a harsh voice said above them. "You are welcome, by the way."

"Petrus!" Rullens said as he squinted up at the figure perched like a malevolent crow on the roof of a warehouse. "So that's where you got off to."

It had been difficult to part Petrus from his horse, as he was the sort who would rather ride than walk to the privy, but they eventually persuaded him that he would attract too much attention. It seemed he had taken their warning to heart, since no one - including the Tevinters - had seen hide nor hair of him during the fight. Only the dead left in his wake betrayed his presence.

The Grey Warden dropped down to the ground beside them, bringing with him a small flurry of snow. "I was retrieving my arrows when I heard the fighting. Have you seen Fiona?"

"She said she was going to see if the slaves - er, I mean, the people the Tevinters captured - needed healing," Garevel said as he handed Varel his discarded cloak.

Rullens hung his mace back on his belt and cocked his head; the din was dying down. "What's the situation?"

"We've secured the warehouses they were using to house their people and the" - Garevel's face twisted with distaste - "holding pens."

The captain looked surprised. "That was quick. I thought we'd have to spend at least the morning flushing them out of any hidey-holes and breaking through barricades. Messy, that."

"We managed to catch a good half of them still asleep in their beds," Garevel said with one of his rare smiles. He jerked his thumb at the Tevinters his soldiers were dragging away. "Those three had left their posts to gamble somewhere out of the wind, which is how they saw our advance. They were the only ones who managed to get past our lines, so we had to chase them down."

"And they would've managed it, too, if we hadn't stopped them," Rullens said.

"Yes, ser. We would've had a hard job trying to find them, once they got loose in the city." Garevel posted two of the soldiers who had stayed to keep watch on the doors of the empty warehouse, then led them towards a building near the center of the cluster.

"You have taken prisoners, I hope," Varel said as he put on his cloak. They needed to squeeze out every bit of information they could from the Tevinters in order to capture their ship, and corpses could not be questioned.

"Yes, ser," Garevel said. "We've had them switch places with their prisoners, but I don't think they appreciate their new accommodations - or the irony."

"Have you fed the prisoners yet?" Varel said.

Garevel shook his head. "We'll starve them for a bit, then we'll give them the horsebread they were feeding their captives. And we'll add plenty of salt to everything."

"And give them nothing to drink." Rullens was wearing an unpleasant smile. For once, some of Arl Howe's more 'gentler' methods of interrogation could be put to better purpose.

The smile Garevel wore was identical to the captain's. "Yes, ser."

"You made sure they could see our troops drinking ale?" the captain said.

"They made a great show of how tasty and refreshing it was, yes." Garevel rolled his eyes. "The Orlesians lost a great deal of thespian talent for their theater when they became soldiers."

"Did you find and secure their barge?" Varel said. He had been worried some of the Tevinters would manage to escape in their boat and warn the rest of their comrades.

"Yes, ser," Garevel said. "It's moored at a tiny pier, surrounded on three sides by warehouses and covered with a canopy, and you have to go through several buildings and rooms to get there. I don't think we would've found it if you hadn't told us."

"It was the boatmen who spotted them," Varel said. "Good, that should allow us to retain the element of surprise."

"Excellent work. And how have our new recruits worked out?" Rullens said.

Garevel sighed. "I'm sorry to report they got excited and missed some of their strokes. We've taken most of the casualties as a result, but at least there are no deaths."

"You've nothing to be sorry for. New recruits always do that in their first fight." Rullens thumped his second on the shoulder. "We'll just have to send 'em back to the armsmaster; she'll make sure they won't forget next time."

Varel snorted as he propped his sword back on his shoulder. "They will wish they had died in truth after she gets her hands on them."

Rullens was philosophical about it, but then he could afford to be. "Better to wish for death than to actually suffer it."

"Ser, there's one thing that bothers me about those holding pens," Garevel said. "There's more than they need to hold the two dozen they have."

Varel exchanged a glance with the captain. "That seems to suggest they are planning on housing more captives here."

Rullens nodded, looking as if he tasted something bad. "They must be using their ship to transport more of them here. Arrogant Tevinter bastards."

"We will teach them humility, Captain, though they will have little time in which to learn it." Varel looked forward to it.

Inside the warehouse, they found Ser Cauthrien sitting at a desk that faced the door; judging from the scrolls and pieces of parchment scattered across the surface, it had been used by one of the Tevinters. A simple screen woven out of willow withes offered some privacy and separated it from the rest of the warehouse, which had been converted into a makeshift barracks. Beds, stacked three high, lined the walls, and crude tables and benches had been placed in the middle to serve as the eating area; one corner had been set aside as the kitchen.

The building had probably been used for record-keeping in a more prosperous past: it had two floors, with the top floor two-thirds the size of the ground floor, which had tables for scribes and pigeonholes installed in both walls. Narrow windows covered with waxed paper lit the second story, while small oil lamps hanging from hooks on the wall illuminated the area below. Varel was grateful for the warmth from the two roaring fireplaces placed at each end.

At the other end of the building, a sergeant was directing a line of men and women in ragged clothes into the room. They looked confused, bewildered and frightened, but Varel did not think any of them were injured. Then again, slavers would not want to damage their 'merchandise'.

Fiona was there also, saying something to each one, her voice too quiet for Varel to hear what she said, but her calm demeanor and words seemed to soothe them. She held a wax tablet, and were making notes with a stylus. Perhaps she was used to dealing with the survivors of darkspawn attacks.

Rullens approached Cauthrien for a low-voiced consultation, and Garevel excused himself to see to the rest of his soldiers while Petrus joined Fiona. Varel went over to speak to the sergeant when the last captive had fallen into a bed with a grunt of exhaustion. "Everything has gone well?"

Maverlies nodded. "Yes, ser. I've told the captives we'll send a message around to their families about their whereabouts." Her lips twisted. "Those of them who still have families, anyway. They probably thought the poor bastards were dead and moved on."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Varel said with a sympathetic grimace. "They haven't given you any trouble, then?"

The sergeant gave him an emphatic shake of her head. "No, ser. Most of them practically collapsed with relief when they realized we were rescuing them. They're not a threat to anyone."

"Good. Carry on, Maverlies," Varel said. The sergeant nodded.

"For once, things have gone according to plan," Cauthrien said as Varel approached her desk. "We didn't even need Fiona's magic for the assault, though we're grateful for her help in healing the wounded."

"So I see," Varel said. There had not been much collateral damage, which would not be the case if magic were involved. "You managed to take them by complete surprise, it seems."

"If we didn't, the dogs certainly did." The knight smirked. "They thought they could hide from the noses of our best hounds - and found they were mistaken."

"From what I've heard of the Tevinters, I expected... I don't know, more explosions. The dead raised on a tide of blood, or something," Rullens said.

Cauthrien raised an eyebrow. Varel said, "You've been reading too many bad adventure novels, Captain."

Rullens gave him a fish-eyed look. "Says the man who keeps lending them to me."

Caught out, Varel said, "It's... well-written drivel."

The captain turned back to Cauthrien. "Are you telling me they didn't even leave a mage in charge? Not that I don't treasure the stupidity of my enemies, but if this were a book, I'd throw it at the wall for being too contrived."

Varel glared at the other man. "That explains certain marks on some of the books you returned to me."

"Ah, I actually have an answer to that particular question," Cauthrien said as she picked up a piece of sheepskin worn thin with scraping. "Most of the mages were with the group in Denerim, later killed by the Grey Wardens; the rest are on their ship. Guarding the slaves they picked up is a necessary but tedious task, so it was left to a non-mage." She put down the scrap and gave them a thin smile. "Apparently, they didn't anticipate any trouble."

"Their discipline frayed rather quickly for soldiers," Rullens said with a hint of disdain.

"I doubt they're from the Tevinter army," Cauthrien said. "They need them at home to put down slave rebellions and to fight their neverending war with the qunari."

"And they had no mage here to keep them in line," Varel said. "They are far from home and performing boring guard duty, other than snatching people off the streets. That tends to erode discipline."

"I bet they hate the cold, too," Rullens said. "The sentries they put on the roof were wrapped up like little feathered Satinalia gifts. Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised after all."

Varel's attention was drawn to the rest of the clutter on the desk. "Have you found anything else as interesting?"

"No, I've only found that and lists so far. If there's anything incriminating in here, I can't find it." Cauthrien drummed her fingers on the desk, losing her smile as an expression of frustration etched its way across her features. It was obvious that she was more comfortable with a sword than a scroll in her hand. "Perhaps you could look these over for me and glean what you can from them, Seneschal?"

Rullens clapped Varel on the shoulder. "Papers are what Varel lives for. Nothing you say would please him more."

"I can think of a few. Returning my books in pristine condition would be a start," Varel said, giving the captain a severe look.

"Lies. All lies," the other man said.

Varel ignored him and turned back to Cauthrien. "I would be happy to assist you, ser."

She looked pleased. "Good. I need to go oversee the interrogations; there might be important information they didn't dare put in writing."

"I suggest letting them stew for a bit," Rullens said. "We haven't fed them yet, and by the time we do, they'll be dying for a drink not long after. A small enough bargaining chip, but thirst and hunger are powerful motivators."

Cauthrien gave the captain a thoughtful look. "You speak as if from experience." Rullens's shoulders lifted in an embarrassed shrug. "Very well. I'll question the captives; they, at least, should be much more forthcoming."

The knight glanced up as one of the Vigil's soldiers came in. "Sers, there's a group of city guardsmen at the gate. What should we do with them?"

"Ah, right on time." Too late to do anything, Varel thought. He supposed not even the city guard could miss soldiers in the Vigil's colors standing right in the middle of the busy docks district. "Pardon me, but I should go and speak to them first. Please make sure no one disturbs those papers."

Cauthrien rose. "I'll leave them - and these - in your hands, then. I'll be upstairs, questioning the captives." Followed by her bodyguard, she went over to consult with Fiona, then walked up the stairs.

Varel propped his sword on his shoulder and went back out to the gates, to find Constable Aidan had indeed arrived with a squad of city guards, who were now facing off with the soldiers Rullens had posted there. No one had drawn their weapons yet, but he could see fingers tensing on hilts. He managed to keep his face straight when he saw the astonished expression on the constable's face as he stepped between the two groups to greet him.

Aidan's jaw dropped. "Varel! I mean, Seneschal - what in the Maker's name are you doing here? Why are Vigil soldiers in the city? Bann Esmerelle's going to have my hide for not informing her about this!" _I'm going to look like a blasted fool in front of her!_ was not said, but implied.

"If you are so concerned, come in and have the rest keep watch out here," Varel said, putting his free hand on the constable's shoulder and propelling him into the compound. "All will be made clear once you have seen just what has been happening here." _Right under your nose, Constable, right under your nose!_

The Vigil soldiers parted to allow them through, then closed ranks again, leaving the rest of the city guards outside.

Aidan opened his mouth, then shut it. He spluttered for a bit, then managed to say, "Fine, but let's make this quick. It's chaos out there, and my guards need to know where to find me."

It was true the stink of burning hay was still strong, but the thick smoke had been ripped apart by the fierce ocean winds. Every city-dweller feared fire, when many buildings were built with wood and roofed with thatch, a fear they had taken advantage of for this distraction.

"It seems to be dying down now, and the fire has not spread. No harm done," Varel said. The boatmen had made sure of that.

"But, but the burning haycarts - people said there were buckets full of water sitting right next to them when they went to put out the fires! Something very strange is going on."

"Very convenient, to be sure. What if they had been full of oil, instead?"

Aidan stopped in the middle of the path and shrugged off Varel's hand as he turned to face him, accusation and shock writ across his features. "You planned this! And you didn't tell me!"

"Not I alone, but, yes, it was part of the plan." Varel returned only a bland look as the other man stared at him. "We couldn't tell you. You would have been obligated to tell the bann, and word might have reached the ears of these slavers," he said, and watched the other man's expression closely.

The constable's shock seemed genuine. "What? Slavers?! What slavers?"

Varel made his words crack like a whip. "The Tevinter slavers you should have found, Constable. But it was easier to look the other way, wasn't it? When small, unimportant folk - elves, whores and refugees - went missing, you did not look very hard for them, did you?"

Aidan went pale under his dark complexion, and he flinched. "I, I, I didn't know -"

"You should have." Though he was disappointed in Aidan, Varel was satisfied the constable had had no part in this wretched affair. "Perhaps then we would not have been forced to intervene."

The constable looked dazed, and offered no struggle when Varel took his arm and started pulling him towards the warehouse office again. "They're from _Tevinter_? How... how do you know?"

Varel and Cauthrien had discussed how best to minimize the involvement of the boatfolk and the harbormaster's assistant in order to protect them from reprisal. For that matter, Varel himself did not want to meet any of the bann's thugs while walking through the city. "I think Ser Cauthrien should tell you that part."

"Who?"

"The commander of Maric's Shield. Surely you must have heard the news of her arrival - and her purpose in coming here."

Aidan rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "Oh, yes. It's been the talk of the city. The bann's been in a foul mood ever since she returned from Vigil's Keep. And this... this will make it even worse."

"The matter is no longer your concern, Constable. This has become... political."

The constable gave him an exasperated look. "That's easy for you to say - _you_ can go back to the Vigil. _I_ have to live here." He sighed. "I'm not getting paid enough for this shit."

Varel could not help but agree with that. "Neither of us is. But you do the job in front of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varel is a fan of Varric Tethras's early work.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more mopping up for Varel to do than just simply freeing the captives and punishing the Tevinter slavers.

Varel nodded at the sentries posted at the door and stepped inside the warehouse, where the freed captives had now settled down onto the pallets their former captors had used. They were still in shock, though they looked much calmer than they had been earlier; soon they would demand to be released so that they could return to their families and their homes. He hoped the promise of some sort of compensation would stay that first impulse; as Fiona had said, they might have overheard something important the slavers had let slip.

Aidan's face was set until he saw the captives, and it was plain he recognized some of them. "Those are some of Bartholomew's whores," he said in a low voice, almost as if he were talking to himself. "I used to pass by them every day when I patrolled the docks and market."

"You mean the ones he was sure had run off in the middle of winter?"

The constable blinked at Varel's acerbic tone. "Er, yes. Do you mind if I spoke to them?"

"Be my guest."

Cauthrien and the Wardens had gone upstairs, so Varel hung up his cloak, leaned his sword against the wall where the knight had also put her own, pulled off his helmet and gauntlets, and sat down at the desk she had vacated. He began making his way through the papers, separating them into neat piles as he listened with half an ear to the murmurs as Aidan questioned the captives.

Others might see only meaningless lists and tallies of items, but there was much he could glean from them. There were receipts from reputable chandlers, many of whom he recognized by name. Buying from different sellers would reduce suspicion; a single purchase of twenty barrels of salted pork was much more memorable than five, especially during the slow winter season, when few ships dared the storms. There was a cheap counting board and an unused wax tablet under some scrolls, which served him well enough in making calculations.

Varel glanced up at the sounds of jingling mail and armored bootsteps nearing him. "Well, Constable? Are you satisfied? Or would you like me to show you even more damning evidence?" He made to reach for his belt pouch.

Aidan's expression was grim. "No need for that. I've heard enough."

That was just as well, since Cauthrien had the actual evidence; Varel did not think the housekeeper's shopping list would be very convincing, but the further he could push the constable off balance, the more they could get away with.

Varel steepled his fingers and looked up over them at the constable. "Well, then... what will you do now?"

"I'd be stupid to tangle with Maric's Shield," Aidan said with an unhappy expression. "Certainly not when your combined forces outnumber the entire guard. Like you said, this has all gotten political, and that means it's way over my head."

"I take it that means you sent a message to Bann Esmerelle," Varel said. The constable nodded. "I expected as much, though I suspect one of her spies has already alerted her. It might be a good idea for you to make yourself scarce before she shows up."

Aidan nodded, then rested his knuckles on the desk and leaned down towards him; Varel held his ground and kept his eyes on the constable's own. "I'll let it go this time, but if you ever - _ever_ \- pull something like this again without informing me, there will be a reckoning," he said in a dead-level voice.

Varel inclined his head, not showing any hint that he was pleased with this show of backbone. If only Aidan had found it earlier. "Yes, Constable."

Aidan straightened up and turned to leave. "I think I'll go on patrol today. A very long one."

"I think that would be wise."

It was only a matter of time before the bann herself showed up. Varel was a little surprised she wasn't already here to demand answers. Perhaps she was simply not a morning person.

Varel took the stylus back up and returned his attention to the papers on the desk, but found that he had filled the wax tablet with his notations. A quick rummage through the papers on the desk and in the drawers did not turn up another; it was the only one he had at hand. He huffed, annoyed with himself for being so ill prepared, and copied the contents of the wax tablet to a spare piece of parchment. Once he was finished, he set the tablet on the hearth so that the fire could soften the wax, allowing him to blank it for another use. He had just sat back down when Rullens returned.

"You and Garevel seem to have things well in hand here, so I'll be returning to the Vigil," the captain said. "One of us has to be there, and since you can handle the likes of Bann Esmerelle better than I, it should be me. And then there are the spoils and the ship to deal with. You're the best haggler I know - I'm sure you can get better prices for them."

Varel gave him a dry look. "That's what I said back when we were still at Vigil's Keep."

"I know, but I wanted to get the measure of the new recruits myself. We've never hired from outside the arling before. Now I'm satisfied - they'll do. I'll be taking the worst of our wounded back to the Vigil."

The mention of injuries amongst their own made Varel frown. "Are you certain they should be moved?"

"Fiona healed the worst of their injuries, so they're fit enough to ride. They'll be fine after a few quiet days in the infirmary. I'll send you replacements as soon as I've reached the fortress. In fact, I'll send a runner ahead of us so that they can be ready to march upon my return."

Varel nodded. "Very well. Oh, tell the housekeeper to give them some mulled wine as a reward."

"You're going to spoil them," the captain said with a wry grin, but did not gainsay him.

"They did well, they deserve it. And seeing them rewarded will make the others work that much harder." Varel thought about what they had to do to complete the capture of the slavers. "About the replacements: could you send me some that have some nautical experience? If we have any. We will need them to help take the ship."

"I'll see what I can do. How long do you expect this will all take?"

Varel had already discovered the supply schedule: they sent out a barge once a fortnight, and if weather prevented passage, they tried again once there was a clear night. The next shipment was due in two days.

"Hm, about four days, perhaps five," Varel said after he consulted his notes. "No more than a sennight if the weather holds, even with full wagons of supplies slowing us down. I will send a messenger if anything changes."

"We'll be expecting you then. I'll send on the wagons of the things we need repaired with the reinforcements, too. Do you think we have enough loot to pay the smiths and leatherworkers?"

"By my calculations, yes, though we've not yet found their strongbox."

The captain's eyes lit. "If you could find _that_ , it might ease some of our money problems."

"That's my hope, yes. They had enough to bribe Teyrn Loghain and Bann Esmerelle into looking the other way; they would have to have enough left after that to fund the rest of the expedition."

"Assuming they haven't spent it all."

Varel shook his head. "The mercenaries would not stay on if they're not being paid."

Rullens fixed him with a stern look. "Speaking of which, you'd better watch yourselves around those blasted Tevinters."

Varel tapped his right fist to his chest in a half salute. "We will."

"Then good luck, and may the Maker watch over you."

Varel bent once more to the papers after the captain left, but not long after Rullens's departure, he heard a commotion outside, from the direction of the gates. One of the soldiers stationed there came to report that Bann Esmerelle and a small force had arrived.

Cauthrien came downstairs at the news, followed by her bodyguard, while the Wardens remained above, looking on these proceedings from the railing with great interest. "I was wondering when she would show up. I think I shall receive her here, rather than going out to the gates. Let her in, but she may only bring two of her escort with her," she said. The soldier braced to respectful attention and left.

Varel rose and offered her his seat. "Shall we see if this plays out as predicted, then?"

The knight sat down, her bodyguard taking up station behind and to her left. "Let's find out."

They did not have to wait long, for Bann Esmerelle, dressed in full plate, came storming into the warehouse and up to Cauthrien's desk, trailing two of her soldiers. Varel took up a position with a good view of what promised to be an entertaining spectacle, and did his best impression of furniture. It was not difficult, since he had years of practice from working for the old arl. He saw Garevel entering from the doorway at the other end of the warehouse; the other man gave him a nod and joined him, schooling his amusement to blankness.

"I wonder which poor fool had to go roust Bann Esmerelle out of bed," Garevel said to him in a low mutter. Varel pressed a finger against his lips.

"Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?!" Esmerelle said. "I am the bann of this city, and I should have been informed of your intentions _before_ you barged into my bannorn and turned things upside down!"

Varel had to hide a smile when Ser Cauthrien did not even look up at the other woman's entrance, and wondered if the knight had learned the tactic from Loghain, or from dealing with the noble scions who joined the army with dreams - or delusions - of martial glory.

Cauthrien finished writing something before she looked up, giving the bann a clear view of the insignia on her breastplate. She seemed unimpressed with the other woman's martial appearance. "I am Ser Cauthrien, commander of Maric's Shield, and I do not answer to you, Bann - only to the Crown. And I am here upon their business."

That statement bent the truth a little; the Crown had not known until Cauthrien had sent them a message, but she had received their enthusiastic permission to pursue the matter. The king had been part of the group that had gone to stop the slavers in Denerim's alienage, and he did not remember them fondly.

Bann Esmerelle looked down her axe of a nose at the knight. In a cold, haughty voice she said, "And what business could that possibly be, here in a warehouse on the docks in my city? Is Maric's Shield intending to expand into shipping? There are much less disruptive ways to do that than setting fires and hurting legitimate merchants."

Cauthrien leaned her elbows on the desk and gave the bann a cool look over her clasped hands. "I am here to capture enemies of Ferelden. Your bannorn appears to be infested with slavers."

The bann's cheekbones stood out like spikes on her paling face as some of the bluster drained out of her. "Slavers? Here?" she said in a much weaker voice. "Have you any proof?"

"Those were their victims," Cauthrien said, jerking her chin at the captives sitting on the pallets, some of whom were watching and listening to them with wary expressions on their faces. She pulled a waxed leather tube from her belt pouch and took out some papers from it. "And I have here notes that betray their dark intentions for the people in _your_ fair city."

Esmerelle reached for the notes, but Cauthrien pulled them back out of reach. She tried to arrange her sharp features into a conciliatory smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. "I see. I am fortunate indeed that you uncovered this... perfidy."

Garevel snorted; Varel elbowed him into silence.

Cauthrien gave the bann a sweet smile. "I'm only doing my duty. These slavers are particularly dangerous, as they're from Tevinter, and they have brought mages - even maleficar - to do their despicable work."

Esmerelle's eyes widened at the news of mages. Had she not known? Perhaps she had not wanted to know. The Tevinters had enough gold to buy discretion, Varel was certain.

"I'm sure the Chantry would be most displeased to find them here, so close to where Andraste first revealed the Chant of Light," Cauthrien said in a most pious tone.

"Yes, they would," the bann said faintly.

The knight assumed an earnest expression. "And the templars are always so harsh towards those who shelter apostates, especially if they are maleficar."

Esmerelle seemed to shrink into her armor. "Surely it would not be necessary to involve them?"

Varel took that to mean the bann could not bribe Revered Mother Leanna into looking the other way. Leanna was a pious, ascetic sort, not to mention a bit on the sanctimonious side, unlike the one who had followed the old arl.

Cauthrien gave the other woman a toothy grin. "Not to worry, Bann, I have matters well in hand here." _As long as you don't make trouble for me_ , hung in the air.

"But why are soldiers from the Vigil here?" Esmerelle said, her eyes passing over Varel and Garevel without really seeing them. Her mouth twisted into a smile that was more of a snarl. "There is no liege lord to command them."

Varel made a bow to the bann calculated to show deference but not obedience. "Naturally Vigil's Keep had to provide troops at the behest of a representative of the Crown."

The bann frowned, not in displeasure this time, but with puzzlement. "Who are you? You look familiar."

"I am Varel, seneschal of Vigil's Keep, since Aren has not returned to take up his duties. Do you happen to know where he is? He has not been seen since he left with Arl Howe for Denerim."

Esmerelle's nostrils flared at the mention of the arl. Without deigning to answer his question, she turned back to Cauthrien. "Now that you have captured these slavers, what do you plan to do with them?"

"Punish them - and any accomplices we can catch, of course. What else? Slavery is illegal in Ferelden, after all." Cauthrien stared without blinking at the other woman.

The bann was too controlled to sweat, but she seemed to have some difficulty in meeting the knight's direct gaze. "Of course. Justice must be done." 

"Well, if that is all, I have duties to attend to, and I'm sure you do, as well," Cauthrien said, and picked up a parchment sheet on the desk to read. Or pretend to read.

Two spots of red appeared on the bann's cheeks at the curt dismissal, but she could not move against the knight without repercussion, and she knew it. Turning on her heel, she pushed aside her two bodyguards as she strode out, leaving them to scurry after her.

Cauthrien gave up her pretense and leaned back in the chair, putting the notes into the tube and securing it back in her belt pouch. "Who is Aren?"

Garevel answered before Varel could. "Bann Esmerelle's distant relative. A cousin or something. Arl Howe appointed him as seneschal when Varel, er, would not go along with his wishes."

The knight's lips quirked. "It doesn't sound like this Aren impressed you."

"No, ser," Garevel said with no hint of apology. "He was a mealy-mouthed boot-licker."

Varel suppressed a sigh at Garevel's forthright reply, even though he agreed with it; he was a good soldier, but being too blunt was one of the reasons why he had been passed over for promotion. Cauthrien was a soldier and appreciated plain speaking, but some of the touchier nobles would not.

Cauthrien gazed at the bann's retreating back like a terrier eyeing a rat. "She gave up too easily. The bann is in this up to her neck, or I'm the empress of Orlais." She turned to Varel. "You're certain you couldn't find anything to link her to this filthy business?"

"Nothing so far, ser," Varel said, spreading his hands. "The bann has always been too cunning to be caught in any crime. If she is involved, there would only be the most tenuous of connections, through many layers of middlemen." Cauthrien made a frustrated noise at that.

Garevel looked worried. "How much does she know about the slavers' operation here, do you think? Could she warn the ship somehow? All our planning would be for naught if she can."

Varel shook his head. "No, I doubt the slavers have been so forthcoming with details. The less she knows about it, the more she can deny knowledge of their operations. She'll cut her losses and distance herself from all this as fast as she can; she will not risk the displeasure of the Crown and the Chantry both."

Cauthrien rose. "Enough speculation. I think it's time to put the Tevinters to the question."

"They should be ready for you, ser," Garevel said. "They must be dying for a drink of water right now."

The knight gestured to her bodyguard. "Bring some of our dogs to the holding pens. A little bit of slobber, a bit of fang, a bloody muzzle, and a deep growl can go a long way."

Her soldier's grin grew downright nasty as he stood to attention at the order. Garevel gave Varel a nod and accompanied them. The Wardens came down the stairs and left soon after, perhaps to observe the interrogations.

After they left, Varel was finally able to concentrate on his task, and soon the clicks of the beads as he moved them on the counting board echoed in the quiet room. The captives had settled down into exhausted sleep on their pallets; after all the uncertainty and fear and abuse they had endured, they deserved what rest they could find. The sounds of marching bootsteps, as well as the snuffling and panting of the mabari, came and went as humans and hounds patrolled the warehouses.

Absorbed by what he was finding in the pile of papers, tantalizing fragments written in a crabbed hand scattered among them like leaves in a stream, Varel did not look up until he realized Garevel was calling his name. He blinked at the other man, and saw that the angle of the light outside had shifted. 

"The Tevinters seem to put feathers and engraving on everything but their smallclothes, but their armor and weapons are of excellent quality," Garevel said as he handed over a tally stick and a loaf of dark bread stuffed with onions, cheese, and strips of meat soaked in gravy. "You should be able to get a good price for them, even after we've taken our pick."

Varel's stomach growled at the scents of meat and toasted bread; it seemed he had worked past the dinner hour again. He had been aware of the smell of cooking food for some time, but had not thought to go and fetch any for himself. Then he wondered if the captain had known this would happen and had told his second to look after him.

"You made sure no one is hiding anything?" There was nothing that stirred up resentment among soldiers faster than squabbling over loot.

"Yes, ser, I explained that it didn't matter what duties they were assigned - we all get a fair share after you've had the loot assessed, and that you can get much better prices than if they tried to sell on their own."

Varel considered taking some of it to Denerim, where there were more buyers, then decided it was not worth the trouble; from what Cauthrien had told him, there was likely a glut on the market from all the arms scavenged from their dead and the darkspawn. Besides, he knew many of the buyers in Amaranthine personally, and due to the Blight, they had not been able to acquire much stock. They would be glad to buy their spoils.

"Tell them I will do my best."

A grin came and went across Garevel's face. "I know that look. You're thinking of which shopkeeper to fleece first."

Varel put his hand on his chest. "You wound me! Simply because one of my uncles was a notorious horse-trader means nothing."

"Horse- _thief_ is what I heard."

"You can't believe everything you hear." Varel speared a piece of meat that was overflowing from the bread with his belt dagger, then hesitated before he put it into his mouth. "Wait, where did this come from?"

"From the Tevinters' supplies. There are some barrels of salt pork and cheese, one of flour, and loaves from yesterday's baking - what you're eating right now. One of our soldiers is making more bread. Don't worry, we had the dogs catch some rats for us to test the food and drink. Besides, I doubt any of the Tevinters had time to sabotage them. I can get you some ale if you brought your travel cup."

Satisfied by the other man's answer, Varel took a bite and handed over his cup. The pork was a little on the tough side, and salty, but it was savory and hot. The bread, despite its coarseness, was quite good.

"You have not found a strongbox?" Varel said, when Garevel returned with his mug.

"No, ser, and we've already gone through the Tevinter soldiers' personal belongings twice." Garevel jerked his chin at the small chests attached to each pallet, which had been emptied, their contents taken to be tallied.

"Nothing on their persons?"

"Just the usual assortment of gems, rings, and other such fripperies. We confiscated them, of course."

Varel's brow wrinkled. "You found nothing that looked like a key?"

Garevel shook his head, then grimaced. "No. I suppose we'd have to wait and see if one of them swallowed it. In any case, there isn't anything that looks like a cash-box. Maybe they sell off jewelry instead of using coin? I've heard that's what some mercenaries do."

"Perhaps, but they would be smart to take them to a money changer first. Flashing that sort of thing around the marketplace brings its own troubles." Varel drummed his fingers. "They must have one to hold their valuables, either way." A pity the dogs could not help with the search.

Garevel's face twisted into a dubious expression. "Maybe they used magic to hide it?"

"Surely they would not waste magic on something so mundane." Varel was not sure; for all he knew, they did use it like that in the Imperium.

"They could be keeping it on their ship."

Varel shook his head. "They need to buy supplies, which requires money, though I would not be surprised if they keep the larger portion of it on board, under their eye. My informants told me they have never seen it dock."

Garevel gave him a curious look. "Why are you so set on this?" He lowered his voice. "Are the Vigil's coffers truly that bare?"

"They could stand to be more full, but it is not that. Or not just that." Varel nodded at the freed prisoners on the other side of the screen. "Something is owed to them, too."

The other man had an odd expression. "We freed them. Isn't that enough?"

"Yes, we freed them. In the middle of winter. They have nothing but the clothes on their backs, and those are mostly rags now."

"Ah. Hm." Garevel fell silent for a moment. "I'll... search again."

"Be careful - it might be trapped." Varel had a thought, and said, "Ask Ser Cauthrien if she could put the leader to the question."

Garevel looked shamefaced. "I'm sorry, but if I read their insignias aright, she's dead. For all that she'd been caught flat-footed, she put up a spirited defense, and led a charge that almost broke through our lines. One of ours shot her, intending to disable; he missed, but the bolt managed to tear open her jugular. She bled out almost immediately."

"Blast!" Varel curbed his irritation; these things happened, and lambasting Garevel would not bring the Tevinter back to life. "See if she had a second, and ask Cauthrien to interrogate them first."

"Yes, ser."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel finds the Tevinters' strongbox, and finds clues that might help them in taking the rest of the slavers down for good.

Varel sipped from the cup Garevel had filled with ale from the barrel in the kitchen and continued to make notes, and only remembered he had a wax tablet waiting to be reused when he found himself writing increasingly smaller script along the edge of the page.

He muttered a curse under his breath when he picked it up and realized he had left the wax tablet near the fire too long; the opaque wax had turned into a hot, translucent liquid that would have burned him down his front had he not been wearing his armor. Well, it was cold enough outside that it would solidify again soon enough, so he went out, ignoring the curious looks of the sentries, and looked for a handy pile of snow. That was when he noticed a slight discoloration on the wood now visible beneath the runny wax. Mold growing in a flaw in the wood? It was a cheap tablet, but, no, the blotch looked too regular for that.

He went back inside and poured out the wax into a shallow dish he found in the kitchen, and walked back to the desk, holding up the tablet to the light of a lamp. With a fingernail, he scraped away the rapidly cooling wax, revealing a sequence of seven tiny letters that had been written along the edge. They had been etched into a darker band in the grain, and were almost invisible. Had it not been for a trick of the light, he would not have spotted it.

Seven... what was so significant about the number that it stirred his memory? Varel's eyes roamed across the desk as he thought, and his gaze snagged on the dragon seal on one of the notes. Of course, seven for the seven Old Gods the Tevinters used to worship. Well, maybe. But was it a cipher, or a password? Was it some sort of code for communicating with the ship?

Feeling they might turn out to be important, he copied the letters onto a scrap of parchment, slipped it into the tablet, and put it into his belt pouch, then set the dish of wax near the fire so that it would melt again.

While he waited for Ser Cauthrien to return from her interrogations, Varel prowled through the warehouse, looking for likely hiding places for the Tevinters' strongbox. He was certain they had one, and that it was somewhere in the building. Finding nothing on the ground floor, he climbed up to the top, where he peered into the empty pigeonholes, tapping the pommel of his dagger on the walls and listening for any hollow sounds that would betray a secret compartment. The tables were just wooden planks placed on barrels; just to make sure, he used his blade to pry up the lids of the barrels, but they were empty.

He was about to go check the other warehouses when he was brought up short by the sight of the desk he had been working at. While the others were little more than a few planks laid on two barrels, this one was a much more substantial affair: a thick board made out of a single piece of wood rested on two pedestal legs, each containing two drawers, along with a fifth above the knee hole. Though it lacked ornamentation, the top was scratched, and looked worn with age because the polished surface had been neglected, it was built of solid oak.

There was no reason that Varel could see why it had not been sold and replaced with something cheaper, like the rest of the furnishings. Then he saw that it was actually too large to fit through either of the doorways; the parts had probably been brought in to be assembled. Perhaps it was too much trouble to break it up into pieces again, or doing so would ruin it too badly to be sold. It was a better start than looking in empty buildings.

To pass the time, Varel tested the desk with the pommel of his dagger, not really expecting anything to come of it. He was glad for the privacy screen; what he was doing must sound odd to the other people in the room. His low expectations were at first borne out when he heard only thunks of solid wood. He decided he would just have to pull out each drawer and search for hidden compartments; things slipped in the back when they grew too full, as he knew from his own experience, though all he expected to find were old accounts and papers.

Cauthrien had already emptied out the contents of the desk and piled them on top, so there was nothing in there but bare wood when he checked again. He checked all four pedestal drawers, but all he found were scraps of parchment so old they were discolored. Then he pulled out the top one, and that was when he discovered something curious: an extra thick piece of wood in the back of the drawer. The desk had been so well crafted that the additional weight had gone unnoticed, and of course it could not be seen. The color of the false back was nearly an exact match to the original, and in the darkness it was easy to overlook.

He reached out to touch it, then hesitated, reminded of his own warning to Garevel. After pulling his gauntlets back on, he used the point of his blade to probe the nigh-invisible seam. Since Garevel had not found anything odd in the Tevinters' possessions, it probably did not require a key. There were scratches on the surface, which he prodded with caution, but nothing happened. One of them looked just a little too regular; he pressed that spot harder, then some catch or mechanism yielded, and the panel flipped open.

Inside was a small, slim box that rustled when he took it out and shook it, and a little book of the cheapest sort, made of scraps of parchment of differing sizes and quality sewn together. The pages contained the same handwriting that had been on the correspondence on the desk.

Setting it aside for the moment, Varel opened the box, which contained a slim stack of crisp, expensive-looking paper, covered with colorful watermarks and seals. When he unfolded them, they turned out to be banknotes of unremarkable denominations, payable to the bearer. That explained how the Tevinters were paying for their supplies: the Dwarven Merchants' Guild Bank was always so busy, even during winter, that no one would remember one client among many.

Putting the banknotes back in the box, Varel added the total to Garevel's tally, then picked up the book. It turned out to be a journal: at first there were just notes about guard rotations, training, pay, and leave, not dissimilar to what Rullens might write, then they began to be interspersed with complaints.

The first was dated a month ago: "Worried about C's silence. Last message was from before darkspawn invasion. T says they're just lying low, but T never liked C. Probably hopes C is dead. Stupid. A tremendous loss if C and his enclave wiped out."

After a few more pages of administrative details, there was another, just below a watch roster: "Told T we should move base out of this dog-stinking city. Plenty hiding places in Marches, W. Coast. No one cares if dog-lord refugees disappear. Kirkwall might thank us. But T says other slavers there, too much competition."

Varel began skimming through the pages, and read, "Worried about Blight. Good for snatches, but may need to cut our losses.

"Disciplined some fools damaging merchandise. Were bored 'cause T allows only limited leave. Stupid, but T not soldier and don't care about stir-crazy troops.

"Heard rumors when buying food: dog-lords running scared. Harder for us to work. Told my idiots they should've taken refugees instead of city whores. Have to be more careful now."

Varel wondered if this journal was the only outlet for frustration the Tevinter had. Some of the words had been etched so deeply into the parchment, there were little spatters of ink where the quill had splintered from the pressure, and he could see the impressions of the letters on the other side of the page.

Cauthrien and Garevel returned together, trailing her bodyguard and the Wardens, as Varel was paying more attention to the mundane details in the journal.

The knight raised a brow when she saw the drawers that Varel had pulled out and piled up in a corner. "Are you that desperate for kindling? There's a woodpile just outside."

Varel showed them the hidden compartment. "I found the Tevinters' strongbox, though it's not so much strong as secret. Was secret. And this." He handed the journal to Cauthrien and pointed out the relevant entries.

"I think this 'C' must be Caladrius, the mage who was in charge of the slavers in Denerim," Cauthrien said. "And 'T' must be the leader here, commanding from the ship."

"And it sounds as if there were disagreements between him and the woman he left in charge here. That could be useful," Varel said. "How did the interrogations go?"

"They were hired by the mages to be their muscle," Cauthrien said as she passed the book to Garevel. "They think their employers took advantage of the Blight to start this... venture, to try and curry favor with their master, or one or another of the Tevinter houses."

"And we have learned how they communicate with the ship," Garevel said.

"Do they use passwords?" Varel said. "I confess to being worried about that part. No matter how clever our disguises, we just don't sound like the Tevinters."

"No, they use a lantern to send flashes of light in code to and from the ship, and we've confirmed the sequence with several prisoners." Garevel held up a piece of parchment. "Which I have here."

"It's a pity this journal you found doesn't tell us the numbers they have on the ship," Cauthrien said.

"I've made some reasonable estimates," Varel said, and handed over his report, which listed the amount of supplies the Tevinters had been delivering and the probable numbers that were consuming them, given the type of ship they were using.

While the knight paged through the report, Varel handed the box of banknotes and a copy of the updated tally stick to Garevel. "Put these with the other loot. And make sure it is all well guarded."

Cauthrien looked surprised at how much he had discovered. "If I did not already reappoint you as seneschal for Amaranthine, I would be tempted to poach you for the Crown."

"It was not difficult." It had only taken Varel time to compose; whoever had been in charge of the Tevinters' accounts had been fond of writing notes on any available scrap of parchment. Meticulous, yet disorganized.

She gave him a dry look. "I recruit from the best in the army for Maric's Shield, so they are good men and women, and excellent soldiers. There's no one I'd rather have guard my back. Unfortunately, they're also the sort who'd push the point of a stylus right through the wood of a tablet if you asked them to write a proper report."

Varel made a self-deprecating gesture. "I was helped in this case by the Tevinter's absentmindedness. She appears to have written reminders to herself on any available scrap of parchment to hand, and she kept them all in order to reuse them. Inexplicable when taken on their own, I simply managed to assemble the puzzle."

"Then it's time to start planning our assault on the ship," Cauthrien said. "Let's go upstairs so everyone can sit down."

Once everyone was seated upstairs, sitting on the tables where there were not enough chairs, Varel put down the ink bottle and quill he had taken with him and began. "Their ship is using makeshift anchorages on the coasts of Brandel's Reach and Alamar to shelter from storms. The two islands are riddled with such places."

"I wonder why they didn't hold their prisoners on Alamar?" Cauthrien said. "It's an island, so they couldn't escape that way, and no one could discover them by accident."

"They have to be in the city to prey upon the refugees, I suppose," Varel said. "Alamar is a desolate place to stay; they would have to subsist on hardtack and salted meat. At least here they can buy fresh food and find what entertainment the city offers."

Garevel saw the puzzled looks on the Wardens' faces. "Alamar is one of a group of islands just off the coast, to the northeast of the city. To Alamar's west is Brandel's Reach, which I've heard is a haven for raiders."

Varel picked the thread of explanation back up. "It is, and they have plagued shipping in the Waking Sea and Amaranthine Ocean since the occupation ended and the Orlesians stopped patrolling the waters. They're smart enough to avoid the Storm Coast and Bann Mac Eanraig's ships, or we might have been rid of them long ago. Fortunately for us, they are not on par with the Felicisima Armada, though they may have loose ties to that group. The Tevinters have probably reached some sort of accommodation with them to operate here with impunity."

"I suppose because they're not competing with each other. They may even be colluding together." Cauthrien's expression grew cynical. "I'm surprised Bann Esmerelle hasn't done something about those raiders - they're extorting money from merchants that should be in her coffers."

"She would like to, but she doesn't have much of a navy," Varel said. "In fact, if we can capture the Tevinters' ship, I would like to sell it to her. She's one of the few who can afford it. Unless you wish to claim it for the Crown?"

Cauthrien hesitated, then shook her head. "Tempting thought, but all our resources are being put towards rebuilding. It would just molder somewhere in Denerim's docks and take up a berth. Perhaps someday..."

"So how are we to take the ship?" Garevel said.

"Why not disguise ourselves with the gear we looted from the Tevinters?" Varel said. "We know they only make deliveries at night, so we will have the cover of darkness."

"But we only have the one barge," Garevel said, shaking his head. "Surely you don't think one boatload would be enough to subdue the entire crew!"

"And we have no sailors," Cauthrien said. "Even if we did manage to take the ship, we don't know how to sail it. We cannot trust that the Tevinters will not try to sabotage the vessel."

"Ah." Varel reached the same conclusion that was making Cauthrien grimace. "I should have thought of that. We may need Bann Esmerelle's help, after all."

"I'm not fond of the idea. I've gotten used to working with you and your people; I do not know this bann." Cauthrien's expression suggested she also disliked the noble.

"Why not see if the boatmen can help?" Varel said. "Most of them stay in the city to be close to their families, but some of the more adventurous ones have worked on such ships before returning home. I'm sure Ker could round up two dozen or so for us."

Garevel looked dubious. "Are you certain two dozen is enough? I thought they needed more crew than that."

"We are not talking about sailing her through high seas and storms," Varel said. "They will have anchored somewhere off shore, otherwise it would be impossible to bring in supplies. Easy enough in daylight, but not at night. If we are successful, we should wait until morning to sail her in."

Cauthrien brightened. "I like that idea much better than asking Bann Esmerelle for aid. I suspect it would come with a price I'd be loathe to pay."

Varel was not surprised; despite their different backgrounds, Cauthrien had been quite taken with Ulla and Ker, and the feeling was mutual. "I will go and arrange a meeting." He eyed the parchment-covered windows near the ceiling and saw that it was almost dark. "Ker's cousins should be done with the day's work soon."

"Send a message instead; we still need to discuss the assault," Garevel said, then looked embarrassed. "Er, I, uh, I have never actually fought aboard a ship before."

Cauthrien shifted in her chair. "All the battles I've been in were on land. I hope we don't get seasick."

Petrus grunted. "Darkspawn are not usually encountered on the high seas, so I am just as ill prepared for this."

"You should've thought of that before you decided to play the pious knight in shining armor," was Fiona's dispassionate criticism. "Or battered and well-used armor, in your case. Do you even know how to swim?"

"No," Petrus said with a scowl. "So we had better succeed."

Varel suppressed a wince at the thought of telling the king he had lost one of the Crown's most important guests to drowning. "I have never fought aboard a ship, either, though I worked on a similar vessel when I was a boy."

The knight's impatient wave of her hand urged him to explain. "You know more than we do, then. Have you any suggestions?"

Varel cast his mind back to those years he had spent as a lowborn page on one of those ships. "The crew sleeps on the deck, so first we must make sure to block them from hiding in the hold."

Cauthrien looked surprised. "They sleep on the deck? Really? Even in winter?"

"The hold is for cargo; usually only the captain has a cabin under the after-castle. Depending on the size of the ship, there may be more accommodations." Varel took out a scrap of parchment and began to draw a crude picture. "Besides, it can be just as unpleasant below decks: there are no windows and thus no fresh air, and vermin is an ever-present nuisance. At least they have some sort of shelter under the forecastle. Ideally, we should be able to trap them in there before the watch can sound the alarm."

"I like to plan for less ideal scenarios." Cauthrien stared at the picture and pointed at the belly of the ship. "What if they do manage to get into the hold?"

"Use shorter weapons like daggers, and bucklers if you don't want to fight with a weapon in each hand. They would be more effective than swords and larger shields in the cramped spaces below." Varel spread his hands apart to indicate how long the weapons were. "The sailors use long knives with broad blades and crossguards - more like single-edged short swords - as both tools and weapons. I've seen them use short axes, too, but more for repelling boarding actions."

Cauthrien grunted. "So they'll all be armed, and will fight like rats if cornered."

"Yes, and they will be fighting on their own ground," Varel said. "At least they won't be armored - it is too cumbersome if they must climb the ratlines, and every sailor fears drowning."

"What about bows? Crossbows?" Cauthrien said. "We'll be vulnerable to arrows if all we can take are bucklers."

Varel thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. They are difficult to use on a swaying ship, and the sea air is hard on strings. They are not very effective unless there are enough of them to fire volleys from the forecastle and after-castle. Crossbows might be a danger below decks, but not longbows - you simply cannot draw it in such a confined space. Shortbows, possibly, but they are unlikely to be in any ship's armory."

"How many ways in or out?" Garevel said, staring down at the picture as if trying to memorize it. "And there are more of those mercenaries on board?"

"There should just be the one hatch," Varel said. He flipped through the parchment scraps he had written his notes on. "I only have estimates of the crew on board, but they probably stationed half there and half here. The mage would hardly stoop to doing all the dirty work himself, after all."

"Where would they be?" Cauthrien said. "Near the mage, do you think?"

"In the after-castle, yes," Varel said. "That is where the captain's cabin and the best accommodations - such as they are - would be. The real danger is the mage - or mages."

"Yes, I know. He could burn the ship down around us and drown us all even if we kill him." Cauthrien winced at the thought. "And we can't risk him using blood magic on us."

Fiona stirred. "I think you had better leave him - or them - to me."

"And I, of course, will be there to watch your back." Petrus directed a glare around at all of them, as if expecting them to argue.

"We all will," Cauthrien said. "Our highest priority must be that mage, so Fiona will be the linchpin of our attack."

"It all comes down to just me, does it?" Fiona's mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. "I never thought I would say this, but I almost wish we had a templar around."

Garevel looked unhappy. "I know we'll have surprise on our side, but I wish we had more of an edge - we're all but going in blind. We only have an estimate of their numbers, we don't have any knowledge of the ship's layout, and most of us have never even fought at sea."

They all contemplated Garevel's words in glum silence, until a slow smile spread across Cauthrien's face. "They're expecting a shipment, aren't they? Then we'll give them one, though it won't be salt beef and dried fruit we'll be bringing."

"What do you mean, ser?" Varel said.

Cauthrien's smile broadened into a toothy grin that would not look out of place on a shark. "You'll see," she said, then sobered. "We have two days to get ready for the assault, so let's go talk to Ker and Ulla, and start doing some serious planning."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel participates in the surprise attack on the Tevinter slavers' ship, which doesn't go as smoothly as he would like.

Varel put on the Tevinter helmet over the mail coif and cinched the chin strap, then pulled on the leather cloak; it was lined with fur on the inside, and the edge of the hood was trimmed with short black feathers, which he had to admit was warm, even if it did look ridiculous. He pulled the hood forward over his head, trying to find a way to hide his face without obscuring his vision. The Tevinter helmets had no visors, only nose-guards and cheek flaps, so they would be depending on darkness, their hoods, and the complacency of the enemy to get aboard the ship.

They also had a special surprise.

"Well, how do I look?" he said as he knotted the cloak ties. Done with that, he rolled his shoulders to settle the armor, which did not fit him all that well. His skin felt sticky where one of Cauthrien's soldiers had given him a dab of kaddis, and he had to resist an urge to scratch the spot.

Garevel, already wearing another set of Tevinter armor, looked him up and down with a critical eye. "Like a black rooster in armor, ser."

"It's these feathers," Varel said as he led the way to the pier. He checked to be sure he could free his weapon from the scabbard; he was not using his greatsword, but one of the Tevinters' longswords. Though he missed the familiar weight of his own sword, it would give him away at once, and it was also too unwieldy to use in the close quarters of a ship.

The warehouses had changed hands and purposes so many times that the architecture had grown strange, almost organic: the pier could only be accessed by passing through an obsolete pantry in the back of a warehouse, which had a door that opened into an office in yet another building, and from there to a tiny alley that smelled as if it had doubled as a privy. It looked like a dead end, but right around the corner was the pier, covered over with a dark-colored canopy that hid their preparations from anyone at sea. No wonder Garevel's soldiers had had trouble finding it. The haphazard placement reminded him of some parts of the Vigil's architecture, though more thought had gone into the fortress's planning.

There was a great deal of activity in the small space, with people moving like shadows in the dim glow of a single lantern. Closer to, they resolved into Cauthrien's soldiers, who were loading in barrels and crates with great care.

The Tevinters' barge could not hold many of them, so only Varel, Ser Cauthrien, Fiona, Petrus, and as many of Cauthrien's best soldiers as they could fit would be in the vanguard. Their boat was going to ride low in the water with the weight of them and their armor, as well as all the cargo.

Ker's cousins, Wren and Raven, were there also, supervising and helping with the loading, because they were the only ones who had the knowledge and expertise to pilot a full barge in the dark. Transferring cargo from one vessel to another in the open sea was hard enough in daylight. They turned at Varel's approach, and he had to stifle a smile as they stared wide-eyed at him, surprised, perhaps, by his transformation from their raggedy houseguest to armed and armored soldier.

"Are we ready?" Varel said to them.

"Aye, just waitin' fer Ker and t' rest of t' party ta arrive - and here they are now," Raven said as Ser Cauthrien and Garevel, along with the Wardens, arrived behind Varel.

All of them, except for Fiona, were dressed in the Tevinters' confiscated armor; the mage had on the same feather-trimmed cloak, but wore her robes underneath, the hem tucked up in her belt so that they would not get in the way. A piece of rope had been tied to her staff, so that she could sling it on her back when she had to climb up the side. 

There was a whistle from out on the water; Wren replied back in the same fashion. Unable to see the lantern on the pier, Ker relied on sound alone to bring his barge in on the other side of the pier. The boatman's unerring accuracy never failed to amaze Varel. Varel dimmed the light down to a glimmer as the blunt bow of the boat nosed in under the canopy, turning it back up only when it was fully inside. Ker was not alone; he had brought along one of Ulla's boatmen to help, the big fellow who had opened the door for them.

Ker exchanged quick greetings with his cousins, then tossed a rope to Varel. "Start boardin' - t' sooner we finish this, t' faster I kin git back home ta me wife."

"How many pots did your wife throw at you?" Varel said as he tied the rope to the mooring post.

Ker heaved an exasperated sigh. "Three, but she missed all three times. Practically gave me her blessin', really."

"Has anyone ever told you your wife has a strange way of showing her affection?" Varel said as he tied the rope to the mooring post.

The boatman grinned and shrugged his huge shoulders. "Least a man knows where he stands with her."

"Behind something, if he's smart."

Ker chuckled. "Aye." He winked. "But she makes up fer it in other ways."

Garevel had taken Ker at his word; his handpicked force, consisting of all the soldiers with any sort of nautical experience the Vigil had - not many - lined up to step into the boat. They had trained with great intensity on the barge and the fishing vessel Varel had retained in the two days leading up to the assault, so no one lost their balance or fell overboard. How well they would be able to board the Tevinters' much larger and taller ship without drowning remained to be seen.

They had fewer than Varel liked for the assault, but they needed some to stay behind to keep watch over the prisoners, and Rullens could not send so many from the Vigil as to leave the fortress's defenses weakened.

"We should git a move on," Wren said, taking up a sweep while his brother took the other. "Gonna be hard nuff shiftin' all this weight out ta sea."

"Least 'tis a clear night and a calm sea," Raven said, taking a more philosophical view. "Moons almost full, too."

"Well, let's see if all that practice will pay off," Cauthrien said as she stepped into the barge.

Varel went next, and watched in some concern as the barge sank a little further into the water with each passenger that embarked. But the boatmen were unperturbed, shoving away from the pier as soon as the line was untied.

"Good luck, and Maker watch over you," Garevel said, keeping his voice low. "I'll be waiting for your signal."

"Same to you," Varel said, raising a hand in acknowledgement before the canopy hid them from view.

The night seemed drenched in black pitch at first, until Varel's eyes adjusted. Both full moons were up, but though their light glimmered on the waves in a most picturesque way, it was not much help in allowing him to judge distances at sea.

"It's... a lot darker out here than I thought. And a lot bigger," one of the soldiers said, sounding daunted.

Varel shushed her. "Remember: sound carries over water, so don't talk." He heard someone swallow; he hoped it was just nervousness, not seasickness.

Out here, surrounded by the restless sound of the waves, away from the comforting lights of the city, it was brought home to him how their flimsy barge floated like an insignificant speck of dust upon a fickle and uncontrollable ocean. He could not blame anyone for feeling overwhelmed when faced with that fathomless vastness.

"There it is," Wren said in a whisper.

Some distance ahead of them, a green light had appeared high up, and began to blink. Varel could now see the darker shadow that was the Tevinter ship, and the signal was on top of the mast; the sails had been furled so as to present a less visible profile. There were metallic noises as Cauthrien took out a dark lantern and operated the shutter to send a signal in response, muttering under her breath as she counted out the sequence.

Varel looked away from the light to keep his night vision intact, and tried to calm his pre-battle jitters. Once they boarded the ship, there was no going back; they would return to the city only if they were victorious. If not, well, he suspected the sea would swallow them eagerly enough.

Soon the currents and the boatmen's sweeps had brought them to the ship, where Varel could hear the squeaking of winches over the sound of the lapping waves. Then there was a clatter as the weighted ends of a rope ladder banged against the wooden side. He relaxed a trifle; they would not have done that if they suspected anything.

"G'luck ta ye," Raven said.

"Almost wish we could join ye," Wren said.

"Thank you for the offer, but we will take it from here," Varel was quick to say. While he did not doubt the brothers were ferocious fighters on their own ground - er, their own boat, Ker would skin him alive if he allowed them to participate. What Ker might do if Varel got his cousins killed did not bear thinking on.

The boatmen gave Varel hearty good-luck slaps on the back, and stayed long enough to help sling their cargo into the nets attached to the ends of the hooks that had been lowered down. Varel winced when he heard the crates and barrels being tossed down onto the deck without regard for their contents.

Cauthrien was the first to climb the rope ladder, followed by her soldiers, with Varel and the Wardens bringing up the rear. What he saw, once he reached the top and clambered over the side, gave him hope that their venture might succeed after all: the sailors had not even looked up from their work, and the mercenaries waiting to be rotated were huddled in a group by the aftcastle, trying to stay out of the wind. As the mage would not stoop to dirtying his hands, so his guards would not stoop to performing menial labor.

There were only two lanterns lit at either end of the ship, leaving large swathes of darkness between, which should help conceal anything that looked amiss with their disguises. Varel had forgotten just how _noisy_ a ship could be, even at anchor in a calm sea. Everything creaked and squeaked, from the rigging to the wood they stood on, to the winches pulling up the cargo. He tried not to twitch at every sound; he was supposed to act like a bored mercenary, exasperated with the lack of action and this routine transfer.

They all waited at the rail until Fiona had climbed up onto the deck, then they surrounded her, hiding her slight form and her staff from view. Still suspecting nothing, the Tevinters allowed them to come near and close in around them. 

"It's about time you showed up," one of the Tevinters said in a surly tone as he stepped forward. "Been freezing our arses off out here waiting for you. The slaves are -"

In one swift movement, Cauthrien wrapped her arm around the Tevinter's neck, her hand covering his mouth and yanking his head back, and with the other plunged her dagger up into the exposed underside of his chin. Each of her soldiers had picked a target and done the same, but not all of them were able to do it with the same finesse; one of the Tevinters managed to cry out before he was silenced.

The sounds of unloading behind them stopped. "Sers?" one of the sailors called.

Despite the sudden pounding of his heart, Varel said, "Ignore them." He knew that the sailors ranked at the bottom of the ship's hierarchy, and would be accustomed to being snubbed. When he heard the loading start back up again, accompanied by resentful grumbles, he knew he had been right in his guess.

Cauthrien nodded. Instead of letting the bodies of the Tevinters drop, they held them upright. Once Varel opened the door to the aftcastle quarters, a pair of soldiers who were unencumbered slipped in. The rest of them waited outside, wondering when the sailors would see through the illusion, until they heard the whispered signal.

They found a narrow corridor inside, lit with two lanterns, where they could put the bodies down. Blood seeping from their wounds began to pool beneath the bodies.

There were three doors inside, but no one was there. Varel had expected to at least find sentries in front of the captain's quarters. One room had to be for the mercenaries, one for the true captain of the ship, and the last for the mage.

"Huh. No guards," one of the others murmured.

"I suppose because they're unnecessary on a ship," Varel said, sounding uncertain even to his own ears. "And he is a mage."

The captain should have had guards, whatever the mage might think, and even the mage had to sleep. That position wielded absolute authority over the crew, and making unpopular decisions in order to maintain discipline was inevitable. What could their absence mean?

Cauthrien had two of her soldiers watch the sailors still working outside from just inside the door, then hesitated. "Which one?"

Varel pointed at the room at the end of the corridor. It was the largest one, and the one most likely to have windows. "There. I suggest groups of three for each room. More and they will just get in each other's way."

"All right. Petrus and I will take point and do our best to distract the mage and give Fiona an opening." Cauthrien assigned the best knife-men among her soldiers to search the other rooms. "There's going to be an almighty uproar once Fiona engages the mage. The rest of you, go back outside and block the forecastle quarters."

"And the sailors?" Varel said.

"Tie them up. Kill any who resist." Cauthrien sighed at the look on Varel's face. "We have no choice: they still outnumber us, even with Garevel's force added to ours."

"Yes, ser," Varel said with reluctant agreement. "And they are all complicit in this slaving business, in any case." But whether the sailors had had any choice in the matter was another story - one he was not sure mattered at this late hour.

Varel stepped back out and walked towards the sailors, who were just about finished with the loading. The sounds of bootsteps and the jingling of mail from behind told him the ones not assigned to the groups in the aftcastle were following on his heels.

One of the sailors looked up with a resentful expression and said in a sour tone, "I'll go get the slaves now, ser."

Without making it look obvious, the others had surrounded the sailors. Varel glanced around, received nods, and drew his sword. The sailor's eyes widened, and he tried to scramble back, only to find that he and the rest of his fellows were surrounded.

"No need for that," Varel said. "Drop your weapons."

"You - you're not -" The sailor dropped his hand to the short blade at his side in what looked like an instinctive move, but the soldier standing behind him grabbed him by the wrist and put her sword to his neck. The man froze, but his eyes flicked towards the forecastle.

"Think carefully," Varel said. "If you call them, all of you here will die for certain - and so will they."

Varel could see what they were thinking in the emotions flickering across their faces as they glanced at each other. The sailors all bore those short tool-blades, but they were also unarmored.

"Ye'll hang us anyway," one of the other sailors said. "I recognize yer accent - ye're Fereldan. Ye'll kill us for helpin' slavers."

"If we're gonna die either way, then I -" the sailor did not get a chance to speak any further, because the soldier behind him had thrust his sword into his heart.

The other sailors were shocked by the sudden violence, and that gave them the opening they needed. Varel's regret did not stop him from running his target through. They had used their disguises to fool and then intimidate them, but they were still outnumbered, and the sudden commotion was sure to attract attention. Varel hoped the sailor's foolish impulsiveness and their subsequent actions had not compromised Cauthrien's group, but all he could do was trust in their ability to handle themselves.

One of the sailors lunged at Varel, thrusting a short, heavy blade at him. Varel shifted aside, and as the sailor's momentum carried him past, Varel's sword sliced deep into his side.

By the time the sailor fell, already dead, the others had already slain the rest. The ship's deck was now a hazardous welter of blood and bodies, but though the fighting had only lasted a few moments, the clashing of weapons and the shouts had been loud.

"The forecastle!" Varel said. He could already hear the sounds of people stirring and calling out in confusion.

Cauthrien's soldiers ran towards the bow, shedding their cloaks on the way. Varel thought hard as he brought up the rear. All the sailors would have were their personal tool-weapons; everything else was locked up in the weapons locker, near the captain's quarters at the aftcastle. That did not mean they were less dangerous - they would fight like cornered rats, and they could overwhelm them with numbers. It was imperative they keep the remaining crew pent up.

Some had already spilled out of the door, but they looked like they had just been roused from sleep. They were no match for the elite Maric's Shield, even few as they were, but more and more of them started coming out. It was dangerous, sailing on the open sea, facing storms, pirates, and shipwreck, so they did not lack for courage.

Varel whirled around at the sound of bootsteps behind them, but it was not more sailors who had somehow flanked them, but Garevel and his group. Without having to ask a single question, Garevel saw at once what was needed. He led his soldiers at a run to the forecastle to reinforce Cauthrien's, who were now being hard pressed, as the sailors were trying to entangle them with nets that were usually hung over the sides like wings to repel boarders. It was not a tactic they were familiar with, and it was forcing them to fall back and fight on the defensive, allowing more of the crew to escape outside.

Because Varel was still facing the stern, he was the first to see a disheveled, half-dressed man burst out of the aftcastle, then stop as he looked around with wild eyes. By what Varel could see of his dress, and the fancy embroidery that gleamed against the dark fabric, he was the mage. How had he managed to get past Cauthrien and the Wardens? Were they all dead?

Varel found he was holding his sword in attack position, but he was no templar - he had no idea what he could do against a mage. He wanted to call out to the others, but they were needed at the forecastle; he could not afford to distract them.

Then there was a piercing whistle that nearly startled Varel right out of his skin. The barrels and crates the sailors had unloaded onto the deck were still there, and now they burst apart as the mabari that had been hidden inside them responded to the signal. Driven wild by their long confinement and the powerful smell of blood, they might have attacked Varel had he and the rest of the soldiers not been marked with kaddis under their armor. The nearest target they had been trained to attack - was the mage.

The mage screamed in rage and fear as the snarling, howling mass of furry bodies charged towards him. The hair on the back of Varel's neck rose when he saw the bright energies flaring around the mage's hands; Varel could not see what he did, but several dogs went flying. They yipped in pain as they fell to the deck, heavily enough to shake the wooden planks. It might have gone badly for Varel and the rest of the mabari then, but behind the mage he saw Fiona, who raised her staff. Compared to the moons' light, the brilliance of her staff was blinding.

While Varel did not know what Fiona was doing, he could see the results clearly enough: the mage froze, hands raised mid-gesture, an expression of complete and utter horror on his face. Then he was lost to Varel's sight as the rest of the mabari brought him down. More lights shone between their bodies, then there was a blast of heat that steamed in the cold air; a mabari yelped. Varel heard the mage's pain-filled screams before they were abruptly cut off. Had the dogs killed him? Varel's heart would hardly be broken over the fact, but he preferred being able to question the mage first.

Cauthrien appeared, pushing dogs away with no regard for all those bared fangs, but they were already calming down. In fact, they were whining, for some reason. Fiona was behind her, staff in hand, but it was no longer glowing with arcane energies.

Varel approached with caution, jerking his head back when he caught a whiff of burned meat. "Is he dead?"

The knight took out a roll of bandages from her belt pouch. "Almost, but not quite." Her voice had gone cold.

Varel saw why, once the dogs stopped obscuring the mage. One of the mabari had savaged the man's arm so badly it only hung by a few shreds of flesh; Cauthrien was tightening a tourniquet around the wound. Then he gasped, because a price had been paid for inflicting that grievous injury; one of the dogs lay on her side, all the fur on one flank burned away, the skin underneath blackened. The others were milling about, touching their noses to the dead dog's, and whining when there was no response.

"Oh, no," he said, kneeling by the dog and checking to see if she was alive.

Could Fiona save her? But she was beyond any mortal power; when he pulled off a gauntlet to feel about underneath the mabari's chest, and tried again on the inside of her thigh, he could find no pulse, and she was not breathing. Cauthrien must have seen that at once, and gone to secure the mage instead of wasting time fussing over a dead mabari.

"Help the others," Cauthrien said to the dogs. They seemed relieved at being given a task they could do; they turned and ran towards the bow, where Varel could still hear the sounds of battle, though they were somewhat subdued.

Petrus came up to them, carrying a lantern he must have taken from one of the cabins. Fiona knelt by the dog, across from Varel. "Is there anything I can do?"

Varel was surprised by the offer; he would not have thought an Orlesian would be willing to do something so beneath her. "No, it is too late."

"I'm sorry," Fiona said. "Years ago, I traveled with an Avvarian bonded to a mabari, so I know how close Fereldans are to their dogs. Will you take her back to Denerim, Ser Cauthrien?"

Cauthrien finished binding the unconscious mage, though she looked as if she would rather strangle the man with the rope instead. "I'm not sure it's possible, but I would like to bring her home. Somehow."

"It should be possible," Varel said as he pulled his gauntlet back on. Every kennel had its own customs, but mabari hounds were always burned on pyres, just like humans. "We can preserve her body with snow and ice. That and the cold should be enough. Please allow me to arrange it."

The knight nodded. "Very well. I place the matter in your hands."

Footsteps behind him brought Varel to his feet, his sword raised, but it was only Garevel.

"We've killed or taken the crew prisoner and secured the forecastle, and we're about to sweep through the hold," Garevel said, then he directed his next words to Cauthrien. "Thank you for sending the dogs; they've been a big help."

"Have you any injured?" Fiona said as she rose.

"Thank you, but it's just a few scratches and cuts, nothing serious," Garevel said. "It would've been a different story had they managed to hole up in the hold, but we managed to keep them trapped."

"One of the sailors said they have more slaves down there," Varel said.

"I'll make sure they're freed." Garevel glanced over at the bodies and the spreading puddles of blood, which had joined together and was starting to drip over the side. "And get someone to clean that up."

"There are more inside," Fiona said. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Making the most dreadful mess."

Varel ripped off a piece of cloth from the tunic of a dead sailor, wiped his sword clean, and sheathed it. "How did the mage manage to get past all three of you?"

Fiona, looking embarrassed, rose to her feet. "We did not expect to find them, er, together, and that one moment of hesitation gave him enough time to escape."

"And the captain fought like a madman. He was surprisingly skilled." Petrus paused. "I almost want to conscript him."

Fiona gave her fellow Warden an amused look. "Are you certain it's not because of his looks?" She winked at Varel. "There was, shall we say, a good bit of him on display."

"He is very handsome - no!" Petrus glared at her; Fiona assumed an innocent expression that only served to annoy the man further.

Varel could read between the lines. "The captain and the mage were...? Well, that explains why there were no guards. I take it he is still alive?"

Petrus nodded and jerked a thumb at the aftcastle. "A little worse for wear, but still alive. He is trussed up like a hog for Wintersend feast."

Cauthrien, looking satisfied if still unhappy about the dog, rose to her feet. Though Varel had seen no signal given, a couple of Maric's Shield materialized out of the darkness and hauled the mage away. "Then I suppose there's nothing left for us to do now but clean up," she said.

"There is still much to be done, but, yes, so it seems." Varel allowed himself to feel relief and just a hint of pride at that.

Their plan had worked; the ship was theirs.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Grey Warden asks Varel some irritating questions after the spoils are hauled away.

Varel looked up at the sky and marveled that the moons had hardly shifted their positions. The fight felt like it had taken hours, but in truth it had not lasted long at all.

Once they were stripped of anything valuable, the bodies of the dead sailors and mercenaries were given to the sea after Cauthrien said a prayer over them that sounded... perfunctory at best. After Garevel's squad of soldiers and some of the mabari swept through the hold and found nothing more dangerous than rats, Varel thought it was safe enough to take off the Tevinter helmet he was wearing and hang it from his belt.

He examined the mage's quarters with some bemusement: it was a warm and well-appointed, if cramped, space, and so full of valuables they seemed to litter the place. A simple tally stick was not going to work; he had to take out a wax tablet in order to make notations as a couple of the Vigil's soldiers carefully collected them all. The walls were covered with thick, rich tapestries, which at least served a purpose in keeping in warmth, but the rest truly bordered on the ludicrous: there were tasteful nude marble statues in the Tevinter style, painted in vivid colors, placed in all four corners, and smaller sculptures made of onyx, opal, jade, and other precious stones on the desk and shelves. They would all be so much hazardous ballast in the first storm, magic or no magic. Was the task of picking them all up again given to some luckless sailor?

There was also a fancy chest that had no visible lock that puzzled Varel. Considering how much effort it took the soldiers he had called in to lift, he thought it was probably the slavers' main strongbox. He thought of the code he had discovered in a wax tablet, and wondered if the two were connected.

Garevel came in through the open door and handed a tally stick to Varel. "The inventory of the spoils so far. The captives are resting in the forecastle now, and the prisoners took their places in the hold, trussed up so they can't make mischief."

Varel glanced at the stick before putting it in his belt pouch. "Good, but I'm still waiting on an inventory of the hold."

"I have someone working on that right now," Garevel said. "I don't think there'll be much, just the last of their supplies. Hardtack full of weevils and the like."

"Even weevil-filled hardtack is useful to someone."

Garevel looked skeptical. "If they need hammers, I suppose. Where is Ser Cauthrien?"

"With Petrus, questioning the captain in his quarters," Varel said, glad he could leave that grim but necessary task to Cauthrien. "Slavers are like rats; we have to make sure there are no more nests of them festering in Ferelden."

"Have they brought out the thumbscrews yet?"

Varel raised his brows at the other man's fierce tone. "No. It seems our defeat of the mage has broken his resistance. He was singing quite gratifyingly when I looked in earlier. Why?"

"The captives were treated... very badly. Fiona is with them now, healing what she can so that they're well enough to be moved." Garevel did not furnish further details. Varel did not ask for them; he had a feeling he did not have to.

"It was probably a tactic to keep them docile," Varel said, though he knew his words would not make the other man feel better. "Treat them badly enough here -"

"Then have their mercenaries on land treat them... less badly, so that they'd be 'grateful'."

"And thus less likely to try to escape, possibly," Varel finished for him. He did not doubt that the slavers had all sorts of horrible tactics for dealing with recalcitrant captives.

"Ugh. I feel dirty just thinking about it." Garevel looked both angry and sick at the thought. "I'm glad we stopped them."

The soldiers finished wrapping the last of the items in rags, cinched the sacks closed, then grunted as they each lifted their burdens up to their shoulders. Garevel stepped aside to let them pass, goggled in bemusement at the colorful statues still left, then excused himself to oversee the preparations for moving the spoils.

Varel had considered unloading their spoils straight from the ship, but she was too large for most of the city's berths, and the ones that could accommodate her were likely still occupied by overwintering ships. So they would make use of the boatmen's services once again to ferry them back to the warehouses, which would both reward them for the help they had given so far, and also keep prying eyes from seeing just what - and how much - they had captured.

The soldiers returned with ropes and poles and more of their fellows to move the statues, and Varel perforce had to get out of their way. He met Cauthrien and Petrus coming out of the captain's quarters.

In the light of the lanterns in the short corridor, an odd portion of Cauthrien's face looked red and shiny, as if she were suffering a bad sunburn; her nose and cheeks were unscathed, where the helmet's nose-guard and cheekflaps must have protected her from the attack. She was still wearing it, perhaps to look intimidating while interrogating the captain.

At Varel's inquiring look, she said, "The mage threw fire at me, which is how he managed to surprise us and get past my guard." Varel winced. She gestured for them to turn back into the captain's cabin, for the soldiers had wrapped ropes around one of the statues and were now lugging it out with much cursing and sweating.

Varel followed her into the captain's quarters; it was smaller than the one the mage had taken, and had already been stripped. But then a sensible seaman would not have cluttered his cabin with hazardous gewgaws in the first place. "Ah. Well, how did the interrogation go?"

Petrus's smile was more suited to a shark than a human. "He sang like a nightingale."

"Truly? And yet he fought all of you long enough and hard enough to allow the mage to escape." Varel frowned, bothered by this sudden change in behavior.

Cauthrien's lips took on a cynical twist. "That was before one of our dogs nearly bit the mage's arm off. My guess is that he no longer fears any reprisal from the mage, now that he can't cast spells. When Petrus suggested he might be able to save him from the hangman's noose if he revealed everything he knew, he jumped at the chance."

"He is just trading one sentence for another. Both lead to the same destination; it is just a question of immediacy," Petrus said, but he did not explain this cryptic remark.

Varel nodded, understanding the captain's situation even if he did not understand the Grey Warden's enigmatic utterance. The captain was doing everything he could to distance himself from his employer in the hopes of escaping the hangman's noose. "Well, what else have you learned?"

"Our fears that they may have established other bases proved to be unfounded." Cauthrien inhaled, then breathed out, looking like someone who had just shed a heavy burden. "This is the end of the Tevinter slavers in Ferelden."

Petrus was more pessimistic. "This group, in any case."

"But we know now there are others preying on Fereldan refugees elsewhere," Varel said, and heaved a sigh. "I wish..."

"If wishes were griffons, we could all fly." Cauthrien looked pained. "They are out of our reach - both the slavers and their victims. We can't do anything for our people now except... except pray."

Varel tried to look on the bright side. "At least there will be more than enough money to compensate the victims, even after portioning out the soldiers' shares. I have already set aside yours, Ser Cauthrien -"

"No," Cauthrien said in a flat voice. "My soldiers are more than welcome to their fair share, but I didn't do this for money - I did this for Lord Loghain. For my honor and his. Take it for yourself or for the Vigil, or donate it to the Chantry, I don't care."

Taken aback by her vehemence, Varel could do nothing but acquiesce. "As you wish, ser."

Petrus looked puzzled at this exchange, but let it pass without asking any questions. Their meeting broke up on that sober note when Garevel arrived and told them Ker's relatives had arrived in answer to their signal.

Outside, Varel shivered in the cold after being ensconced in the warm cabin, then went to the side, where he saw a small ship. She was captained by a disreputable-looking night fisherman - and part-time smuggler, he suspected - and held two dozen of Ker's out-of-work sailor relatives, who would help them bring the ship in. One of the soldiers standing guard let down the rope ladders, which the sailors swarmed up like monkeys.

While the sailors helped the soldiers lower the spoils down to the fishing ship, Varel returned to make one last sweep through the cabins. He gathered up all the documents he could find in the captain's and mage's quarters, stuffing them into a sack he had found in the galley; he should have known the soldiers would neglect such things, focusing on more tangible goods. What little furniture there was had been left in place, as they were bolted to the floor.

"It seems we are done here," Petrus said as he came up beside Varel.

Varel gave the other man a grim smile. "You think so, do you?"

The Grey Warden looked surprised. "You disagree?"

"We have captured the prize, ser - but now we must keep it."

Petrus's face cleared. "Ah. You anticipate the, the - what did you call her, the bann? - the bann will try to deny you your rightful spoils?"

"I think we can count on it."

"Hm." Petrus glanced over at where both sailors and soldiers were cursing as they labored to lower the heavy strongbox down to the ship. "Is that why you are in such a hurry to move all the loot under cover of night? Despite the risks of doing so in the dark."

"And why I had Rullens send as many troops as he could spare."

Petrus understood at once. "So that we can get out of the city in one piece, eh?"

Varel shook his head. "We should be safe enough once we have deposited the monies in the dwarven bank - but not before then."

The Grey Warden rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I look forward to seeing just what these... negotiations... entail." In the moonlight, his bloodthirsty grin looked ghastly.

"It is my hope that it will not come to that, but I've ensured we are ready if it does. How are you feeling, by the way?" The Grey Warden had practiced boarding and disembarking from a ship along with the others, which was how Varel discovered Petrus suffered from seasickness. Despite this weakness, Petrus had gone through the lessons with grim determination. Varel could only admire the man's iron discipline.

Petrus lost his grin. "I would rather not talk about it."

As Cauthrien had admitted she was not nearly as skilled in diplomacy as she was at war, she and Maric's Shield stayed aboard the Tevinter ship while those of the Vigil, along with the freed captives and Grey Wardens, sailed on the fishing vessel back to the warehouses. Varel was certain Bann Esmerelle had spies keeping a close watch, but unless they had eyes like a cat's, they would see little in the dark. He still did not relax until they had returned to the little pier.

The fishing ship's captain whistled; the canopy shrouding the pier was thrown back, spilling out light that revealed the silhouettes of the soldiers left behind, Ker, and his cousins, as well as their barges. The tiny pier could not hope to accommodate the larger ship, but the boatmen worked around this by using ropes and anchors to connect their boats to the ship, thus bridging the gap to the pier.

As soon as Varel and Garevel disembarked, Sergeant Maverlies, who had been left in charge, stepped up to greet them. "I'm glad to see you return victorious, sers."

"Any trouble?" Varel said.

"No, ser," she said. "All quiet so far."

"Not for long," Garevel said. "Tell everyone except those guarding prisoners to come help unload."

The sergeant grinned. " _That's_ a chore they'll be glad to do, for once."

Varel lit a taper from one of the lanterns and returned to the office he had arranged in another warehouse to avoid disturbing the freed prisoners, in order to write messages to those who would be interested in purchasing the loot. The soldiers' part in this scheme was done; now it was his turn to get the most profit out of their efforts. He lit one of the oil lamps and looked up at the sound of boots stomping on the ground outside. Only certain people walked like they were uncertain of the solidity of the earth.

"Oi, Varel!" Ker said as he came in the door, with his cousins bringing up the rear. He yawned. "We're done unloadin' all yer stuff, so now we're gonna git home."

"Thank you, all of you, for all your help." Varel handed each of them heavy pouches of coin. "Perhaps your wife will not throw pots at your head if you bring this home to her, Ker."

Raven opened his pouch and pursed his lips in a silent whistle when he saw the amount inside. "Maybe just one, and she'll probably miss."

"Looks like we won't be havin' any trouble findin' 'nother boat hand come spring," Wren said with a huge grin as he put the money away into his belt pouch.

"Make sure you don't flash your money around," Varel said. Ker and Ulla were too sensible to need the warning, but the brothers were young. "And watch yourselves. People may have seen our troops hiding on your barges, and the bann - or at least her bully boys - might think to ask you some pointed questions. Could you pass the word on to the rest of your cousins?"

Ker nodded, giving his cousins a stern glare that silenced their brotherly bickering. "Aye, I kin do that. And ye're right, we'd all better watch our backs, 'cause t' bann's bound ta be as pissed as a dragon with a toothache once she hears 'bout your li'l raid. I'll tell Tims ta lay low fer a while."

The older boatman clapped his shovel-like hands on the cousins' shoulders. "We'd better git on home. Ye still have ta keep yer promises and do tamorrow's work, and ye won't be able ta do it if ye don't go straight ta bed now."

As if on cue, Wren yawned, and Raven followed a heartbeat later. Varel held out his hand to the two young men; they grinned and shook his hand with no hesitation, a far cry from the belligerent attitude they had displayed when they first learned Varel's true identity. The pouches of coin had no doubt helped in changing their opinion.

Ker watched them leave, and after the sounds of their stomping footsteps faded away, he turned to Varel and slapped him on the back hard enough to nearly stagger him. "Well, ye said ye'd do somethin' 'bout t' bad mess here, and ye delivered. Didn't really think ye could do it."

Varel gave the other man a fish-eyed look. "You mean you thought I had run off."

"Well..." Ker had the grace to look embarrassed. "I wouldn't have blamed ye if ye had. Maker knows us boatfolk wouldn't wanna tangle with t' bann."

"It would have been just as futile for me to do the same. Fortunately, I was able to find powerful allies with no liking for slavers."

"Aye, but ye're t'one who brought 'em all tagether." Ker yawned. "Ah, I gotta git back home and git some shuteye; can't do me work tamorrow if I fall asleep and go overboard. Ye're gonna be here fer a while, right?"

"For a few days, at least." Despite the late hour, Varel's mind was full of all the things he needed to do.

"Well, when ye git a chance, me and t' boys'll stand ye a mug of beer."

Startled out of his musings, Varel stared at the other man in bemusement. "What?"

Ker seemed to be enjoying the sight of Varel's confusion. "Ye heard me."

"But... why? Not that I am ungrateful for the offer, but we did not exactly get off on the right foot at our first meeting. I regret that it was necessary, but we had no time for protracted arguments over your traditional rights and priviledges."

Commoner though Varel was, the boatmen simply did not mix willingly with those associated with nobility. Partly because they could not stand those who gave themselves airs, and partly because of caution.

The boatman's broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Well, sometimes ye gots ta hit a stubborn mule in t' head with a post before it takes notice, eh? Lookin' back now, we was bein' pretty stupid. Mind, if ye do it again, we'll thump ye. I don't care if ye bring t' whole army."

Varel wondered if the boatman knew the Vigil had little enough of an army left. "You need have no fear of that."

"Good," Ker said with a firm nod. "So nip out fer a drink with us, one of these nights, before ye go back. But not too late, or I'll have ta pay another visit ta t' tinker." He held out a huge hand, engulfing Varel's when he shook it, then took himself off into the night.

Feeling an itch between his shoulder blades, Varel turned to find that Petrus had followed him inside, and had been watching them from the shadows in a corner of the warehouse. The other man was still wearing his Tevinter armor and cloak, making it easy for him to blend into the darkness. How much had the Grey Warden overheard? And what did he want?

Petrus gave him a crooked smile when he saw Varel had spotted him. "Well played, Seneschal."

Varel gave the Warden a wary look; he had been aware of Petrus's sharp scrutiny ever since their talk in the Vigil's chapel. "Thank you, ser, but I did not accomplish this on my own."

"I meant the boatmen," the Warden said. "I heard they, er, what is that phrase? 'Keep themselves to themselves', yes? They gave me the impression that they do not make friends outside their own circle easily - or at all."

"We banded together against a common enemy, that is all."

Petrus dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "If that is all they thought of our alliance, they would not offer to buy you a beer, especially after what your captain told me of your show of force. You made a powerful enemy of Arl Howe, but it seems you have a knack for making friends in unusual places."

Varel wondered where this line of questioning was leading. "I had to, to survive." And help others to survive.

"The Grey Wardens will need that talent of yours," Petrus said. His mouth quirked. "The order has many friends when a Blight threatens, but once it is over, it is amazing how many forget our sacrifices."

"Yes, ser." Varel tried not to wince, remembering Teyrn Loghain's part in the whole sorry mess. "Of course I would be happy to assist the Grey Wardens in any honorable venture."

The other man took Varel's declaration in stride, as if he did so every day. "Good. If you do as well in the future as you have for this, I would have little to worry about."

"We were lucky this time - we captured the ship with only one loss."

The Warden grunted. "Do not sell yourself short. Not only did you free the slaves, you captured a rich prize. The soldiers have not stopped talking about what they plan to do with their shares."

Varel was worried they might run off with their shares, in fact, but Rullens had picked the most phlegmatic, as well as the most skilled, of their new recruits, and they all had families. Perhaps they would be tempted to invest in their new home, rather than undertake yet another uncertain flight into the unknown. He had heard that the nearest ports in the Free Marches were overwhelmed, and were closing their gates to Fereldan refugees - at least to those who could not bribe their way in. Maybe he should have Garevel and Rullens spread that information about in the barracks.

Petrus's voice jarred him out of his thoughts. "You could have kept most of it to yourself," he said, giving Varel a penetrating look. "The finder's fee, I think they call it?"

"That would not have been fair, when the soldiers also fought and bled."

The scarred features on the other man's face twisted into a mask of cynicism. "Greedier men would not have let that stop them."

Varel shook his head. "That would just breed resentment, ser. We have enough problems without stirring up more."

Perhaps if he had a liege lord to shield him, Varel might have been more grasping, but he liked to think he would have made the same choice. Of course, if he had a liege lord, the situation would never have reached this point.

He tried to explain to this foreigner. "The Warden-Commander has not arrived yet to take their oaths, oaths that would bind us, each to the other, in her service. Right now, we only have their loyalty because we gave them shelter, and because we have fought together. Now I have shown them that they are valued."

"Interesting. Many men would have been too blinded by immediate profit to take the long view."

Varel hung up his sword, cloak, and helmet, then went about lighting more lamps to buy time to regain his composure. He was not, blast it, going to show his growing irritation with the Warden's questions. "Taking the long view is part of my duty," he said as he sat down at the desk.

"And the freed slaves? Garevel told me you will be giving them more coin than they have seen in their entire lives. They are grateful to be rescued - you did not have to give them anything else."

Squelching his annoyance, Varel arranged his features into a bland mask as he glanced up from the parchment he set out. "I am only doing what is right. They are the true victims in this whole sordid mess. And it is winter; they would die of starvation or exposure if we turn them out now."

If Petrus heard the slight edge in Varel's tone, he did not give any outward sign of it. In fact, there was a hint of a smile hovering on one corner of his lips, as if he were pleased. "I see. Will you keep nothing for yourself?"

Varel paused in the middle of addressing a message to Glassric. "The Vigil provides for most of my needs, but... would it lower your opinion of me if I told you I plan to set aside a modest portion as a nest egg?"

Petrus laughed. "Not at all. If you had said you plan to keep nothing for yourself, I would be suspicious of your true motives." Still with that strange little smile, he turned to leave. "Well, I see I am keeping you from your work. We can speak later."

"What about you?" Varel said.

The Grey Warden turned back, looking surprised. "What about me?"

"What will you do with _your_ share? You aided us - you are also entitled to a portion of the loot."

Petrus seemed nonplussed by the question. "I do not speak for Fiona, but I certainly have no need of it." His lips twisted with black humor. "Soon, in a year or two, three at most, I will have no need of anything."

Varel was baffled by this cryptic utterance, not for the first time. "Ser?"

The Warden shook his head and turned away once more, but not before Varel caught a glimpse of sorrow and fierce determination in his eyes. "You have your work, Seneschal - and I have mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ancient Greek statues were painted, most in gaudy colors that are startling to our modern eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel pays a visit to the Dwarven Merchants' Guild Bank, and receives some perspicacious advice there.

After managing to get a few hours of sleep, Varel donned his proper armor and went to the pier. The sky was just lightening with the first rays of dawn when the sleek, graceful Tevinter ship flew in upon the waves in a storm of pale sails. A small group of boats and barges, full of curious fishermen and onlookers, gathered about as she dropped anchor some distance away, since she was much too large to fit into that berth, and the waters were too shallow. Up on the main mast, Varel noticed the golden dragon standard had been taken down, though nothing could be done about the prow. The fishing vessel, which had been moored just off the pier, raised its sail and anchor, and went off to meet her.

Ser Cauthrien, who had stayed behind on the ship along with the rest of Maric's Shield, was the first to disembark, but Varel had only time enough to greet her before Garevel called him away.

Varel and Garevel looked over the weapons they had taken from the ship's armory, keeping the ones they could use: longbows, kept well oiled and wrapped in waxed leather to keep the wood from warping in the sea air, bundles of arrows, heavy crossbows, bolts, and the strings for both types. The swords were the slightly curved and broad blades of the sort seamen favored, but were not familiar to their soldiers, so those were set aside to be sold, as were the tool-knives taken from the sailors, and small axes used for boarding another ship or cutting through ropes in a hurry. The Tevinter mercenaries' armor and weapons were better than what their soldiers were now using, and those, as well as their cloaks, were set aside. But those ridiculous feathers would have to go.

There were other things they could keep for themselves: extra coils of thick rope, planks of seasoned wood the ship carried for repairs but could be put to good use at the fortress, a few rolls of sailcloth, and some barrels of nails, along with a box of tools. All of these had been listed as spoils in the inventory, but Varel had not had a chance to examine it all last night.

They had just finished sorting out what they would keep and what they would sell when Varel was summoned away by one of the guards, for the first of the eager buyers had turned up at the warehouse gates, clamoring for entry.

The rest of that morning turned into an impromptu auction, to Varel's chagrin; he had envisioned something more ordered and quiet, but the amount of loot the buyers saw the soldiers carrying sent them into a feeding frenzy. He had underestimated just how starved for goods the merchants in the city were, thanks to the chaos of the Blight cutting off trade.

By the time the last buyer left, hauling their new purchases away with hastily hired carts, Varel was exhausted, but quite pleased with the morning's work. They had made a great deal more profit from selling off the loot than he had ever expected, which meant he could provide reparations for the captives and finally get them back to their families - those who still had families to return to. That was a huge burden off his shoulders. And he had done it without forcing the bann to cough up the money. An exercise in futility, that, if ever there was.

"Is it over?" Garevel said, when he finally poked his head in to check on Varel after the hectic series of bidding wars were over.

Varel glowered at the other man; Garevel had taken one look at the proceedings and taken himself off, leaving Varel to fend for himself in a room full of excited merchants and collectors, all shouting to be heard over the others. He left off and said, "For now. At the moment, I am more concerned about giving the captives proper restitution and getting them safely back to their families."

"How are you going to keep them from being robbed?" was Garevel's reasonable enough question as he stepped inside Varel's makeshift office.

"I will place their money safely into accounts I open in their names at the dwarven bank."

Garevel's brows rose. "Just how much are you giving them? I thought the dwarven bank only took on new clients who brought in a minimum amount of money."

"I found a way around the restriction," Varel said. He was a little proud of himself for thinking of it.

"What? How did you manage to put one over the dwarves?"

"I'm not putting anything over anyone. I put their names on the Vigil's rolls as recipients of alms. Or at least I will, once we return, and I have access to the ledgers."

Garevel frowned. "But wouldn't that be a matter between the Vigil and anyone receiving the alms?"

"It would - that is exactly the point," Varel said. "Their names just need to be placed under an existing account - it doesn't matter where or even which."

"Huh. But won't the dwarves be upset about the extra work?"

Varel gave the other man a cynical smile. "As long as I pay the fee, they won't."

Garevel still looked skeptical that this solution would work, but said nothing more about it. As well he should, since he had done nothing to help. Well, Garevel had taken over security arrangements and guard rotations without a word and nary a complaint, so Varel supposed he ought to feel a tad more charitable. When a soldier brought in a mug of ale, a trencher of more salted pork, onions, and a generous piece of cheese, and set it down in front of Varel, he felt a little more forgiving. Breakfast, little more than a piece of toasted bread, had been some hours ago, and his mouth was very dry from all the non-stop talking he had to do during the auction.

"Now that all the loot has been disposed of, when can we leave?" Garevel said.

"Not quite all the loot - there is still the ship, and we still need to turn the prisoners over to the proper authorities." Varel was not feeling so charitable that he would not delegate the next task, and shoved a piece of parchment at the other man. "We also need to purchase supplies. I trust you can handle this?" He stabbed his dagger into a piece of pork with a little more force than was necessary.

Garevel looked down the list, opened his mouth, then saw the expression on Varel's face. He shut his mouth on whatever protest he had been about to utter and said instead, "Yes, ser." His lips quirked. "I see you very helpfully wrote down the names of our usual suppliers beside each item, too."

"I would like to return to the Vigil as soon as we can, after all, which would not be possible if you and the soldiers had to comb through the city, shop by shop, for the things we need. Besides, our regular suppliers would be miffed if we went elsewhere." Varel fixed the other man with a stern look. "I trust I do not have to tell you what will happen if you return with sub-par goods."

"Yes, ser," Garevel said, looking subdued. "You'll tear a strip off us on one side and the housekeeper will rip us down the other."

"Indeed." The housekeeper was famous for her tongue-lashings - all the more potent for containing no profanity - and Varel imagined he was no slouch at dispensing them himself, given enough provocation.

"Should we load the carts and send them on home as we get the goods, or do you want them to all go together?"

"Better, I think, to bring them all with us at the same time we march back home. Rullens told you about helping a caravan beat off an attack when he was on patrol?" Varel said. Garevel nodded. "So we should protect our own little caravan in case of another ambush."

"Very well, ser."

"How long do the smiths need to repair all the things we brought from the Vigil?" There were several smiths in the city, and they had spread out what tasks needed to be done among them so that they could return to the fortress in as short a time as possible.

"Two days, ser," Garevel said. "They all appreciate getting some work in the slow season, but when I asked, none of them want to come work at Vigil's Keep."

Varel was not surprised. "I expected that, though I was hoping to find a journeyman just promoted to master, one who would be eager to set up a new shop. We'll just have to find one elsewhere." He chewed on the meat, swallowed, and said, "What has Ser Cauthrien been up to?"

"Rounding up the Tevinters' Fereldan accomplices. At least there aren't many of those," Garevel said, sounding disgusted that any of his countrymen would lend themselves to this sort of crime. "She wants to make sure everything is done properly, according to protocol, so that no one can argue about it later. So the slavers will be hauled up to the sheriff's court here, so that they can write up a case for the blackhallers, call for witnesses - the whole rigamarole."

"A wise decision," Varel said with approval.

The situation was already irregular, what with Varel bringing Cauthrien, and thus the Crown, into the affairs of a bannorn. Fereldan nobles did not brook meddling in their business lightly; they had set aside their differences and banded together more than once to combat such threats to their autonomy. Only the fact that the heinous crime of slavery had been perpetrated in her domain would keep the other banns from reacting with outrage at this interference and supporting Bann Esmerelle on general principle. And, perhaps, Esmerelle's past assocation with a declared traitor also kept potential allies away. Mud tended to stick. Clear, precise records could only help in this matter.

"And the mage?" Varel said. Chantry law was clear about what happened to apostate mages.

"Ser Cauthrien said she would consult with the templars about that," Garevel said. "At least he's harmless now, at any rate, with only one arm."

"We will have to turn him over to their custody, eventually," Varel said. "But after everything is sorted out, all right and proper."

Since they had to talk to the sheriff here because everything had happened in his jurisdiction, the bann could not be unaware of the proceedings. The sheriff would hardly fail to report all the details to his liege lady.

As if Garevel had read his thoughts, he said, "I wonder how the bann is going to react to all this?"

"She will distance herself from the slavers as fast as she can," Varel said, certain he was right. "Bann Esmerelle has a fine sense of which way the wind is blowing. She'll bide her time and pick her fights more carefully in the future."

"Do you think she'll try to get back at us, somehow?" Garevel did not sound nervous, just thoughtful. "I wouldn't put it past her."

Varel thought about it. "Ser Cauthrien made it very clear that she drafted us for reinforcements, so I think not. We have little choice in the matter. Still, she can be a bit of a sore loser. Likes to spread her displeasure around with a shovel."

"I don't think we can stop anyone from coming here for leave." Garevel looked worried now, but Varel knew it was not because of possible danger to himself, but to those he was responsible for. "Soldiers who can't spend their pay make trouble."

"Nor should we; that would be punishment, and no one is being punished. Just tell them to stay in groups, and make sure everyone looks out for each other. They should be doing that anyway, to keep thieves from targeting them." At least they were no longer in danger of being captured by slavers. Varel felt some small satisfaction about that.

"What about the Vigil staff? I know they like to come here to shop and visit family. We can't spare any guards to watch over them."

If the darkspawn grew bolder, that might change, but it was too soon to bring up that particular subject.

"I will warn them, though it has been too cold for most to make the trip, and there are concerns about the safety of the roads, especially after the caravan attack. Hopefully, the bann will get over her ill temper by the time warmer weather comes around." With the news spreading of the end of the Blight, resumption of trade and preparations for the spring planting should occupy the bann's full attention.

"I am more concerned about the boatmen," Varel said, thinking of Ulla's children, and Tims, Ker's son. He would never forgive himself if something happened to them because of his meddling. "We are safe enough at Vigil's Keep, but they have to live here. You made sure the others kept their mouths shut about the boatfolk?"

Garevel nodded. "I've told them they're not to gossip with anyone outside, period. They know better than to talk about Vigil business to strangers. There isn't much to tell, anyway; you and Ser Cauthrien have been very circumspect."

"Good." Varel gestured at the list still clutched in Garevel's gauntleted hand. "Before you get to work on that, I will need an escort to the Dwarven Merchants' Guild Bank."

The other man brightened. "Will we be getting our bonuses today, then?"

"No, just to deposit today's monies safely into the Vigil's accounts," Varel said. "Never fear, I have not forgotten, but I plan to disburse the soldiers' shares on the last day we are here, to make sure they won't flash too much coin about and be robbed."

The buyers had not given Varel any actual physical money, of course; no one would carry that much coin on them about on the streets, or at least not without surrounding themselves with bodyguards. What he did have was a thick stack of their promissory notes, signed and stamped with their seals, which would allow a representative of the dwarven bank to transfer the stated amount from the buyer's account to the Vigil's, which sorely needed filling.

Garevel looked disappointed, but nodded in reluctant agreement with Varel's reasoning. "That makes sense. But you're not going to give it all to them at once, are you? I don't know if the new recruits will be able to keep their heads if you do."

"No, just enough to make them feel rich, and they'll have some time to waste it at the market here. The rest will be deposited; I have records, and I'll write what each is owed into the ledgers once we get back to the Vigil, and they can draw on their funds once a sennight, in addition to the usual time, if need be."

"Won't that make more work for you?"

Varel shook his head. "No, as long as I don't get a deluge of requests all at once. I'll speak to Rullens about it; between the two of us, I'm sure we can work something out."

"All right. How many do you need for an escort?"

Giving the stack of notes a thoughtful glance, and recalling Bann Esmerelle's ill temper whenever she was thwarted, Varel said, "A squad should be sufficient."

Garevel's brows flew up. "You anticipate that much trouble?"

"Better safe than sorry. I'm certain there were spies among the buyers today, who will have told the bann about just what riches she had missed." Though, really, it all amounted to just a mere fraction of her wealth.

"Well, it's her fault for allowing them to stay here instead of arresting them at once."

Varel exchanged a cynical glance with the other man. "We have no proof that she knew."

Garevel snorted. "She knew, or I'm the Empress of Orlais. I'll go get that squad ready for you; that should be easy enough, now that we don't need the majority of them to guard the loot anymore. And it's not too late to send some soldiers around to get a start on the supplies. I'd like to join you, but -"

"One of us should stay here and keep an eye on things," Varel finished for him. "Besides, this business would bore you to tears."

Varel finished his meal as Garevel left to put his orders into motion. He put the promissory notes into his belt pouch and made sure it was secure, then retrieved his cloak and sword; he hesitated over whether or not to wear his helmet, then settled on hanging it from his belt. Outside, it was a clear, cold day, the blue of the sky so intense it nearly hurt the eyes, as usually happened after some days of snow. It was windy, and once out of the sheltering walls of the warehouse, he clutched his cloak tighter to keep it from flapping open.

At the gate, Sergeant Maverlies and a squad of the Vigil's soldiers were waiting for him. Varel looked them over and nodded approval at their alert and polished appearance. He had seen Garevel and Maverlies leading those who were not on guard or sentry duty in weapons practice in one of the warehouses, despite being far from the Vigil's training fields. They had not neglected the condition of their armor or weapons, either.

"How long do you think your business will take, ser?" Maverlies said as she fell into step beside Varel, on his right side, since he was carrying his sword propped on his left shoulder.

"An hour or two, but no more than that."

"Then I suggest I leave you two to stay at the bank, and take the rest back. You won't be carrying out anything valuable after, will you?" 

"No." Varel thought it over, and nodded. "That's well enough. No point in letting them stand idle there when they could be doing something more useful."

People on the streets stepped aside and watched, wary, as Varel led his little group to the business district, their clothes and manners shifting by slight degrees as they passed first rough dockworkers and sailors, then better-dressed traders and merchants. He wondered what rumors they had heard.

At the imposing stone edifice that was the dwarven bank, the armed guards employed by the guild stopped them at the door. Maverlies took all but two of the soldiers back to the warehouses; Varel's escort was directed to an antechamber set aside for such purposes, where they would be offered refreshments. They should be safe enough there, since Varel would hardly be the only client who brought bodyguards. Then the guards had to take Varel's sword for safekeeping, leaving him with only his belt knife; he felt a bit naked without it, but it was part of the bank's protocol, nothing personal.

The bank was vast, the walls extending up into a dome, testament to the dwarven skill with stone, making the statues that held up the columns look tiny in comparison. Lanterns had been placed in strategic locations to both illuminate and highlight the stonework. It was all designed to impress potential clients, for the riches that passed through the dwarves' hands were all stored underground, where the only things that mattered were the stout locks, thick doors, and devious traps. Sound echoed in that space, filled with the buzz of traders and other customers, and the footsteps on the beautiful marble floor; beneath it all ran the incessant clicking of beads as they were moved on counting boards. A young dwarf showed Varel to a comfortable padded bench once inside, and offered a mug of hot fragrant tea. After the cold outside, Varel was grateful for it.

The dwarf Varel usually dealt with soon came and ushered him into her office. It was much warmer than the drafty main hall, heated with a brazier, and the air was pleasantly scented with the spices it was burning. Beautiful Antivan tapestries covered the walls, keeping the chill of the stone at bay, and small sculptures carved out of precious stone were placed here and there to show both the discerning taste and wealth of their owner.

Frehveris was tiny, even for a dwarf, and seemed to compensate for her size by looking as resplendent as she could in her livery. Given the importance of the Vigil in the arling's affairs, she was a high-ranking member of an important house in the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, and handled all the financial matters for the arl, though she had never dealt with Howe directly, as far as Varel knew. In the brief time he had been seneschal for Howe, he got to know her well enough for them to strike up a friendship despite differences in race, background, and height.

Varel hung up his cloak and sat in a chair, the one sized for humans, while Frehveris settled down behind a desk that was a much larger and ornate affair than the one Varel used.

"It's been too long since yer last visit, Varel." Frehveris gave him a knowing look. "Though I hear ye've been keepin' yerself quite busy down by the docks."

"And what have you heard, Fray?" he said, using her nickname. She grinned at hearing it.

The dwarf gave him a reasonably accurate summary of events; Varel was not surprised, since most of the buyers would have checked with the bank as to the status of their funds first. Merchants and bankers gossiped like fishwives, though they would call it 'equitable exchanges of information' rather than gossip. "So is it true there were slavers who came all the way from Tevinter to operate here in Amaranthine?"

Varel nodded, and pulled out the stack of promissory notes. "That's part of the reason why I'm here today. We captured a good amount of spoils, and I need to deposit the monies from the sales in the Vigil's accounts."

"Aha!" Fray pulled a counting board towards her. "Well, let's get that taken care of, and then ye can tell me all about it. Don't leave out a single detail!" She clapped her hands. "Dunter, bring more tea! And pastries!"

Thanks to her quick mind and stubby but clever fingers making the beads fly along the wires, Fray got that part of the business done faster than Varel expected. Her assistant, Dunter, checked her figures, but he found no mistakes. Fray checked a third time, as was the bank's custom, then had Varel sign a receipt, along with a copy.

Varel was a little nervous now, as Arl Howe had taken his own personal signet ring and seal with him to Denerim, and Aren had taken the ones for the Vigil. He had not dared to ask Ser Cauthrien what had become of them; for all he knew, the Grey Wardens had taken them as spoils, or they had been looted in the chaos that had ensued after the arl's death and the battle with the darkspawn. All he had left was the late arlessa's seal, a small, delicate thing that barely fit onto his little finger.

But neither Fray nor Dunter said anything when Varel took it out of his belt pouch and pressed it into the hot wax Dunter had dripped onto the parchment. Then Fray signed it, using her own much more ornate ring as a seal. Varel made sure the ink was dry and the wax was set before placing the receipt into his belt pouch; the copy would be placed in the bank's records.

Then they had to set a portion aside, the shares for Cauthrien's contingent of Maric's Shield, the order for which also had to be signed and sealed. The money could be withdrawn either here in Amaranthine, or Denerim, as Cauthrien chose.

"Why not take the money with ye?" the dwarf said as she dripped the wax onto the parchment. "Dunter can prepare packets for ye, at no extra charge."

Varel shook his head. "I don't feel comfortable carrying that much coin about in the streets, and I think Ser Cauthrien's soldiers would feel the same. I only brought two soldiers with me for an escort. I'll need those packets, but only on the day we plan to leave. Could you prepare them and store them here?"

"Of course! Are ye sure we can't provide some guards for ye - no?" Fray grinned at his jaundiced expression. "Very well." She handed the slip to him, a piece of treated parchment gaudy with the colorful watermarks and stiff with all the seals that covered it. "This Ser Cauthrien of yers just has to hand this in at any Dwarven Merchants' Guild bank to withdraw the listed amount. Make sure she doesn't lose it, since it's payable to the bearer."

"Thank you." Varel made sure it was placed securely in his belt pouch.

Fray clapped her small hands together again and leaned forward. "Now then, tell me _everythin'_."

They finished the pot of tea and the candied plum and nut pastries before Varel was finished.

"Thank ye for tellin' me," Fray said. "Loghain's dirty little deal with the Tevinter slavers is now common knowledge, ever since the Grey Wardens revealed it at the Landsmeet, but no one told me they had split into two groups."

"I'm not sure how useful this information is to you -"

Fray shrugged. "Ye never know." She leaned forward again, a conspiratorial grin on her face. "So how did the bann take it?"

Varel found it hard not to match her grin. "Poorly. You know how she is."

Her grin turned into a sour scowl. "I sure do. Likes to throw her weight around, she does." Her expression lightened. "Well, nevermind her. I hear also that the Vigil's hostin' a couple of Grey Wardens."

"You're very well informed, but that is true, yes." Varel told her they were just observing, but did not feel he could reveal any more of their mission - and certainly not what they had blurted out in their shock.

" _Just_ observin'? They've been much seen in yer company these past few days."

"Fighting darkspawn is their mandate, but they did not mind turning their hand to rousting out slavers." Varel supposed it was futile to try to keep out spies, and he certainly could not curtail the Grey Wardens' movements. The whole city was probably abuzz with talk and rumors. At least any need for secrecy was now past.

"But isn't it interestin' they just happened to send observers the very year a Blight breaks out?"

"To be honest, I didn't think of it. I don't see that it matters." Petrus had said he could sense darkspawn, but Varel did not know if they could sense an archdemon rising so far away.

Fray shrugged. "I suppose not. But ye didn't come here to listen to me speculate. What else can I do for ye?"

He was certain he already knew the answer, but still he asked, "Any chance you can release more of the funds to me? We're in desperate need of it. Less so now, true, but -"

Fray shook her head and gave him a regretful look. "Sorry, not without the Crown's permission, not even if ye were a living Paragon. Cheer up, I hear ye've finally got a new ruler. Once she's arrived, I'll be able to do more for ye."

He gave her a glum look. "She won't be here for months. And it is not at all certain that she would allow me to stay on."

"She'd be a fool to get rid of ye, and I hear she's no fool. And if she does, come to me; the guild could use a man of yer talents. I'd be happy to sponsor you."

Varel was touched by her confidence, and told her as much. Fray winked at him. "I've wanted to poach ye for years, but not so much that I'd risk tanglin' with the arl. Besides, ye'd insist on staying at the Vigil."

"You know me far too well."

Fray smiled. "Indeed. In truth, I'd rather deal with ye than some ham-handed lackwit like that droolin' idiot Aren. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Nevermind, I don't care. I'll pray to the Ancestors she'll keep ye on. Have ye need of anythin' else?"

"Can you recommend the name of an assessor? I want to sell the ship to Bann Esmerelle, but I'm certain she won't buy the ship sight unseen."

Fray nodded, and wrote down a name on a scrap of parchment before handing it to him. "The guild keeps a few on retainer. We'll charge ye a reasonable fee for their services. What else?'

"Do you know where I might find an artificer who specializes in locks? We found the Tevinters' strongbox on the ship, but it has no visible lock, or even any visible mechanism."

"A Tevinter mage's chest?" Fray wrinkled her snub nose in doubt. "Ye might do better to find another mage."

Varel shrugged. "I might, but everyone knows dwarves are cunning artificers, so I thought you might have a suggestion."

Fray tapped her lips with the feather end of her quill. "Master Bekram devises and maintains the locks for the guild, and he has quite the profitable side business makin' secret compartments and the like for nobles and rich merchants. He's been busy takin' commissions ever since some master thief called the Dark Wolf perpetrated darin' burglaries and robberies in Denerim. He might be able to help ye."

That sounded like just the sort of person he needed. "For a reasonable fee."

The dwarf smiled. "Of course."

They haggled a bit over those fees, then made arrangements for Varel to contact the specialists. Contracts for their services had to be drawn up, which also had to be signed and sealed.

Fray frowned at him. "Ye really ought to be usin' the Vigil's seal."

Varel sighed. "I know, but Aren took the seal and signet ring to Denerim, and they haven't been recovered. If they have, no one has sent them back. I just hope no one is planning to do any mischief with them."

"Well, what ye have will do for now, I suppose. But my advice would be to either retrieve them or get the Warden-Commander's permission to have a new one made."

As Fray was one of the senior members of a banking house that was part of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, Fray's advice was well worth listening to. "I'll see what I can do."

Fray saw his apprehension. "She won't bite, Varel. And even if she does, she can't do it with a letter. All this frettin' isn't like ye. Surely anythin's better than dealin' with the old arl."

"Arl Howe was a rabid bastard, but at least he was the bastard I knew. I don't know the new arlessa."

Stabbing the business end of her quill at him, the dwarf said, "And ye won't unless ye start communicatin' with her."

A request sent by letter _would_ be easier than asking her face to face. A vague sense of shame had made him put off any effort to communicate with his new liege lady, though he had taken no part in the late arl's plot to murder her family.

Varel shook off the thoughts. "Yes, you're right, Fray."

She beamed. "Aren't I always? Now, what else do ye needed?"

"Access to your archives and maps; the Grey Wardens visiting here from Weisshaupt Fortress thought it might help if we could find entrances to the Deep Roads. I don't know of any, but you might have records old enough that marked them."

"Hm, that might be harder." Fray frowned in thought. "We don't let just anyone rummage through our files, ye know. But if ye can get those Grey Wardens to put their request in writin', that would make it easier for me to convince the archivists. All dwarves respect the order - even us degenerate ones who live on the surface."

He agreed to bring the letter, and bid a cordial farewell to the dwarves; they shook hands, his large hand engulfing Fray's much smaller one. He put his cloak back on and went out to retrieve his sword, as well as his escort.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel learns just how cutthroat the politics are in the Anderfels, the Grey Wardens drop cryptic hints, and Ser Cauthrien and Maric's Shield prepare to return to Denerim.

Outside, the light showed it was much later in the day, and it felt much colder. Varel had not realized so much time had passed while he had been closeted with the dwarves. His mind full of the tasks that yet remained to be done, it took him a moment to realize someone had called his name.

"Over there, ser," said Evan, one of Varel's escort.

Ser Cauthrien was the one who had called out to him, and she was wearing an odd expression on her face. Behind her were her bodyguards, and like Varel, she had planned for trouble, for two more members of Maric's Shield had joined her usual duo. She, too, had her sword propped on her shoulder, ready for anything.

"Is something wrong, ser?" Varel said, once he had approached close enough to speak and be heard.

"No, not exactly. We were wondering what Bann Esmerelle's reaction would be, once we'd dealt with the slavers," Cauthrien said. She jerked a thumb at where the harbormaster's building loomed over the others. "If we go now, we'll be just in time to see the show."

Mystified, Varel and his escort followed Cauthrien and her bodyguards; it did not take him long to realize they were indeed heading for the harbormaster's building, over in the docks district. He heard a commotion there long before they reached the place. People had gathered to watch, despite the cold, but stepped reluctantly aside for them when they heard the jingle of mail and saw their armor and weapons.

Varel looked on, his disgust hidden with care behind a bland expression, as Bann Esmerelle, wearing full armor, put herself in a prominent position to lead her soldiers into the harbormaster's building. Like Aidan, she had arrived far too late to do anything about the slavers - if she had ever intended to do so at all - except for making sure she put on a good show for the people and the Crown's representative. Cauthrien would have had to inform the bann of the people she planned to arrest; she could have skipped that step, since she had precedence due to the slavers being linked to the ones in Denerim, but the knight was too canny to make more trouble between the Crown and the bann.

Soldiers in the bann's colors were now guarding the doors, and more were carrying out ledgers and papers. Clerks and scribes, by their inkstained fingers, were shivering in the cold; the soldiers had pulled them away from their desks without even giving them time to put on cloaks. A small group of dwarves wearing Dwarven Merchants' Guild badges and fur-lined cloaks stood nearby; perhaps they were auditors from the bank.

As expected, the bann had no compunction in throwing the harbormaster to the wolves. The harbormaster - ex-harbormaster - looked dazed as he was clapped in irons and led off. He was probably going to be hanged, as the bann had no use for incompetent tools. Varel did feel some satisfaction when the assistant was promoted, though the young man looked daunted. Perhaps he would not need to take bribes anymore.

"She insisted on taking charge here herself," Cauthrien said. By her dry tone, she was not fooled by the bann's sudden industriousness.

"She has little choice, if she does not want to look complicit in this sordid affair."

Cauthrien grunted. "I could not find the person who rented the property to the Tevinters. Is that not strange?"

"Very strange," a voice beside Varel said with equal irony.

Varel nearly jumped out of his armor when Petrus appeared like a ghost by his elbow. His escort clapped their hands to their sword hilts, and looked embarrassed when Varel glared at them.

"Sorry, ser, but it's like he just appeared out of thin air."

"My apologies," Petrus said, though he did not sound very sorry.

Behind Petrus, Fiona rolled her eyes. "One of these days, you're going to pull that trick on the wrong person, and I won't be there to heal you."

"You exaggerate so, Fiona." Petrus turned back to Varel and Cauthrien and made a curt gesture at the activity now turning the harbormaster's building inside out. "You do not look very surprised about this."

"Ser Cauthrien and I discussed the matter," Varel said. "The bann would either deny all knowledge of the slavers and obstruct the investigation as best she could, making haste to cover her trail, or she would sacrifice her underlings in the hopes that would satisfy us. She chose the latter."

Petrus spat. "Politics. Disgusting. Give me a horde of darkspawn any day. At least they are honest about their murderous savagery." Fiona nodded rueful agreement.

"Seeing the world in such shades of black and white must be a comfort to you," Varel said. "But those of us who must deal with human nature don't have that luxury."

The Grey Warden nodded. "You have proven yourself wise in those ways." Again he gave Varel a close scrutiny.

Varel made himself stand still as those eyes bored with uncomfortable intensity into his. "I do my best, ser, but I make mistakes like anyone else." He had made one in not writing the Warden-Commander about the seals, though he supposed he would not have known who to ask for help before Cauthrien brought the news. Still, he'd had days in which to do it, and he had not.

Petrus's attention was diverted, to Varel's relief, when Bann Esmerelle came out of the door. He scowled and said, "The king in Hossberg might well grant absolution to such a one."

Varel's brow furrowed. "He would excuse such behavior on religious grounds?"

The Warden barked a harsh laugh. "No. She would die for her penance, delivered on the sharp point of an arrow."

"That sounds more like assassination, not absolution," Cauthrien said.

Petrus's grin was savage. "You have it easy here in the south. In the far north justice is swift and brutal."

Varel was not sure what to think of that, for he could not imagine Fereldan nobles standing for it, but since the Anderfels had not been entirely blighted by the darkspawn, perhaps it worked. "It certainly sounds like it."

"The darkspawn and the harsh land demands much of my people, and those who cannot bear those burdens must make way for those who can." From the fierce glare he directed at the bann, Petrus thought the world would be better off if Esmerelle were not in it.

"She is as capable as she is ambitious, ser," Varel felt compelled to say. "It's her one true virtue." But the Grey Wardens did not look impressed.

"A barbaric way to run a government, but I suppose Orlesians have no right to talk." Fiona's cynical expression sharpened the planes of her face.

"I certainly see no point in this Grand Game you have told me of so often," Petrus said. "They waste exhorbitant amounts of money on appearances, knowingly harbor each other's spies, vie with each other to dress in the most ridiculously impractical costumes that can be devised, and for what? To accomplish the same end." He sounded very offended by the waste.

"I'm not arguing the point - as an elf, and a mage, I was never part of those circles. I stood on the outside looking in," the elf said in a dispassionate voice. She might have been talking about the weather, but the very neutrality of her tone betrayed some deep emotion, though Varel could not tell what it could be. "But despite how much others may deride it, the Great Game has served admirably to divert the attentions and resources of the Orlesian nobility away from war, so we should all be thankful to it."

"I suppose we should, at that," Cauthrien said, exchanging a rueful glance with Varel.

The Blight had left Ferelden in a bad way, though they were very fortunate it had not lasted years or decades, or there might not even be a Ferelden left. But the fact remained that the country was in disarray, what was left of the army even more so, leaving them very vulnerable if the Orlesians grew organized enough to launch another invasion. They should indeed be very grateful for anything that could distract them from their weakness. Varel had lived through one rebellion; he did not want to see another.

"Well, shall we return to the warehouse? There seems to be nothing more to see here." Cauthrien jerked her chin at the harbormaster's building. Bann Esmerelle had long since left, having played her part to the hilt for the benefit of the Crown's representative and the crowd. Not that her performance had convinced Cauthrien of her innocence, and Varel suspected the Crown would henceforth keep a close eye on the ambitious bann.

Varel was amenable. "I would not mind getting out of the cold." Judging from the way they huddled into their cloaks, neither would the Grey Wardens. As they turned around and began to head towards the more disreputable areas of the docks district, he said to Cauthrien, "What will happen to the prisoners we took?"

"I will pass along a recommendation to be merciful," the knight said. "The mercenaries will hang for a certainty, as they are complicit in the crime, without even needing their captives to give testimony. Just as well, really; we don't need foreign sell-swords wandering around Ferelden."

"Hanging would be merciful?" Varel raised his brows.

"Oh, yes. My soldiers were all for the full treatment. I had the most dreadful time settling them back down." Cauthrien gave her bodyguards an exasperated glance over her shoulder; they returned mulish looks back.

There was only one punishment more severe than hanging. "You mean..."

"Yes. Drag them naked to the gallows, hang until near death, emasculate, disembowel, behead, and then quarter."

"That sounds... excessive," Petrus said. The expression on his face was one of polite interest, not condemnation. What strong stomachs the Grey Wardens must have.

"Is that law still on the books? Barbaric," Fiona murmured, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Yes, it is, which is why that punishment is reserved only for high treason," Varel said. One instituted by King Arland, one of the most cruel of Ferelden's monarchs. "Sure it is not necessary to invoke that particular law, ser?"

Cauthrien gave him a look. "The mage killed one of our best mabari."

Varel winced, for he still felt more guilty about the dog than anything else. It had been carefully wrapped in one of the ship's nets, packed in snow and ice, waiting to be returned to Denerim. "True. Mere hanging is too good. Just the mage, then. But what about the sailors?"

"I'm not certain what will happen to them. They might escape with a flogging and a fine. Depending on the blackhaller's mood, they might even escape the flogging." Cauthrien shrugged. "This was just a job for them; they just chanced to be unlucky in choosing this captain. I expect they could find work easily enough on other ships, once the weather warms."

Varel concurred. If the arbiter spared them, the sailors would be grateful for their lives and not make trouble. Or so he hoped. "Speaking of the captain - what will happen to him?"

Petrus had fallen silent since speaking of the harshness of his land's traditions; now he spoke. "I will be taking him back with me to Weisshaupt Fortress."

"You're conscripting him?" Cauthrien said. She did not sound upset, just curious.

"Yes. A man who can fight like that is wasted in the hangman's noose." Petrus scowled at the elf, who smirked. "Fiona insists it is because he is handsome."

"Is he not?" was the elf's sly comment.

"Well, he is," Varel said. It was not hard to see why the mage had been so distracted he had not even noticed their assault until they had broken down his door. He still felt the captain should be hanged, but he could hardly deny the Grey Warden when he invoked the Right of Conscription, especially after all the help he had given them.

Petrus glared at him. "Don't you start."

Varel shared an amused glance with Cauthrien, but said nothing more about it.

"He may wish he had chosen the hangman instead. Assuming, of course, that he survives," Fiona said in another of those cryptic remarks that puzzled Varel with their lack of context. "If he does, he won't thank you for it."

Petrus dismissed her misgivings with a curt wave of his hand. "I do not desire or need his thanks. And he is hardly the first reluctant conscript I have brought to the Grey Wardens."

"Just the most handsome one." Fiona grinned, making her look ten years younger.

"Fiona!" Petrus shook his fist at her.

Unimpressed by the threat, Fiona only laughed. Varel managed to contain his mirth, and so did Cauthrien, through their shared experience of observers of politics, but just barely.

The short winter day was already drawing to an end by the time they returned to the warehouse complex. Petrus and Fiona left them, and Cauthrien went to check on the rest of her soldiers. Varel smelled food cooking, and his stomach reminded him that the tea and pastries he had taken at the bank had been some time ago. Soldiers coming off watch had formed a line leading to the kitchen, and Varel went to take his place at the tail end after putting down his sword and hanging up his cloak.

Supper was once again pork and onions in gravy stuffed into a loaf of coarse dark bread and piece of cheese. Varel regarded it all with resignation, then laughed at himself as he compared this meal to his one piece of horsebread a day, back when he had been a prisoner in the mine. As he took his mug of ale and his food to one of the tables set in the wide aisle between the two rows of beds, he saw that the freed slaves who had been resting there were now gone.

Garevel came in, carrying his own meal and ale. "The sentries told me you returned." He put the food down on the table and dragged a chair over to sit. "Thought you might want to know we moved the surviving sailors in with their Tevinter collaborators; you were so busy with the auctions that I don't know if anyone actually told you what we had done with them."

"I just assumed you handled the matter with your usual efficiency." Varel supposed he should have looked in on the arrangements, but there had been much to do. Besides, he did not usually interfere with the captain's military duties. Rullens had left his second behind so that the man could gain experience, and no one liked having their decisions second-guessed.

"We also just finished escorting the last of the Tevinters' captives back to their families."

The other man had an odd expression on his face. Varel swallowed a mouthful of bread and said, "That is good to hear. Is something wrong?"

Garevel ate a few bites of meat before speaking. "Some of the people we freed, the earliest ones the slavers caught, don't have families anymore. Or, at least, they don't know what happened to them or where they went. They looked... so lost."

"Ah. I see." That was a sobering thought, though Varel was not surprised. The slavers had been operating here for two months, and much could happen in that time. "Well, it is to be hoped they can start a new life with the money I gave them."

The other man grunted. "From the looks on their faces, it would never be enough." He might have said more, but Cauthrien came in just then. She acknowledged their nods and joined them at the table, sitting down with a tired sigh while one of her bodyguards went to fetch food for her.

"I've put the fear of the Maker - or at least, the Crown - in the city's sheriff, enough that he should give you no more trouble," Cauthrien said as she stabbed her belt dagger into a piece of pork. "I will also tell the Crown's seneschal to make sending an arbiter here a priority."

"Thank you, ser, for all your help," Varel said.

Cauthrien waved this aside as she chewed a mouthful in meditative silence, then said, "I'll give my report to the king and queen as soon as I arrive at the palace, of course, but they will expect one from you, as well."

"Of course, ser." Varel hoped the Crown would not lock these new funds down as they had the rest. All the more reason to get all their supplies and repairs done before that happened.

Varel knew Cauthrien was anxious to return to Denerim, though she had not complained. "We still have business in the city - purchasing supplies for the Vigil, and we have things being repaired - but there is no reason why you and Maric's Shield would need to stay as well. We can provide testimony if the sheriff needs it."

The knight gave him a nod. "Good. I've neglected my duties at the palace long enough, and I want to take advantage of the clear weather. We may stop in at Vigil's Keep to rest the horses and dogs."

"I'll send a courier to the keep and let Captain Rullens know when you plan to arrive," Varel said, knowing how the cold wore on both men and beasts. "He will make sure hot meals will be prepared for you and your troops, and take care of whatever else you need. I have already sent for the cart the Grey Wardens used to transport those barrels for your mabari."

Cauthrien sighed, reminded of that sad duty. "Yes, that will do."

After they finished eating, Varel took out the parchment slip the dwarf banker had given him and handed it to her. "Here are the shares for your soldiers, ser, which you can withdraw either here or in Denerim. Though I'm sure your soldiers would be happier having the actual coin in their hands, I thought this would be safer. And after I have sold the ship, I will set aside your people's share, which the Denerim branch of the bank can disburse to you."

Cauthrien looked pleased, and her bodyguards even more so. As well they might, since they were going to walk away from this venture as rich men and women. It was a pity her sense of honor prevented her from accepting her rightful share. "Thank you for your care. I wouldn't have thought of being so cautious."

"Thieves and brigands have taken advantage of the arling's lack of leadership, and some of the refugees who fled from the Blight and found themselves stranded here have turned to stealing to survive. I would be remiss if I did not tell you of the dangers - and prepare you for them as best I could."

"And then there are the blasted darkspawn," Garevel said. "They haven't been seen on the roads yet, I suppose because they don't need them, but they're unpredictable."

Cauthrien acknowledged the warning with a slow nod. "We're a strong company, so I think we'll have no trouble. Still, I think we should not stop on the way back to Denerim except at the Vigil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really shouldn't play Civ IV when I try to update every Friday, but it's so hard not to play one more turn.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel consults with a master locksmith and receives a startling revelation.

The next day was busy for everyone. While the soldiers took the time to check on wounds, mend their gear, pack, and prepare for the journey back to the Vigil, Varel sent out more messages to the merchants he knew who might be interested in some of the miscellaneous items that had not yet been sold off. Then it was time to write a formal, much more carefully worded missive to Bann Esmerelle, as polite as he could contrive, informing her they would like to sell the Tevinter ship to her. He hoped the prospect of making such an acquistion meant she would not question too closely his authority to do so.

After Varel handed over the sealed letter to a waiting soldier and sent her off, Cauthrien entered, shadowed, as usual, by her two bodyguards. He saw that all three of them had their cloaks on and were carrying packs, as if prepared to travel. Her words confirmed his guess when she said, "It's time for us to take our leave, Seneschal."

"Thank you again for all your help, ser," he said as he stood and gave her a formal salute. "We couldn't have done this without you."

To his surprise, Cauthrien made the same gesture to him. "No, I was only doing my duty. Thanks to you, a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and my honor and that of Lord Loghain have been cleansed of this particular stain."

There seemed to be nothing more to say that would not start another round of modest denials, so Varel just bowed and said, "Allow me to escort you, ser."

Varel donned his cloak and followed the knight out the door. Fiona and Petrus were waiting just outside; with the both of them bundled in their cloaks with their hoods pulled over their heads to combat the cold, they seemed as insubstantial as ash wraiths in the deep shadows between the warehouses.

"Will you be returning to the Vigil with Ser Cauthrien?" Varel said to the Wardens as they fell into step beside Cauthrien.

"Petrus tells me there might be trouble with the bann," Fiona said. "I have no love for noble bullies, so we will be staying with you, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Even the bann would hesitate before attacking a Grey Warden, so your presence may very well deter any trouble. But surely you would be more comfortable staying at an inn?" Varel said, feeling he should be providing better accommodations than a drafty warehouse for the Vigil's guests. He had the sense something more kept them here than just curiosity or a desire to humble the bann, but blast if he knew what it could be. "The Crown and Lion inn is quite comfortable, and it is not too far away."

The elf's lips quirked into a wry smile. "Compared to the Deep Roads, this is paradise."

"I have slept on a bedroll out in the open and used my saddle as a pillow often enough on patrol," Petrus said. "Besides, we don't have to pay room and board here." When Varel opened his mouth, Petrus raised a hand. "No, nor do we want you to pay for it, either."

Fiona looked a little wistful at the thought of better lodgings, but did not gainsay her companion. "Your finances must be rather straitened, given the mess the death of your arl left behind him."

"After all the help you've given us, they are no longer quite so dire." Varel made a small bow to the Wardens.

"You won't be returning to Denerim with me?" Cauthrien said, sounding surprised. "You are guests of the Crown."

"We can find a ship here just as well as we can in Denerim," Fiona said, waving one hand around to encompass the docks. "And I promised to teach the soldiers at Vigil's Keep about precautions they should take if they have to fight darkspawn. From what Seneschal Varel has told us, they may need such instruction sooner rather than later."

"You can see why darkspawn that are still running about after the Blight has ended would be of concern to Grey Wardens, Ser Cauthrien," Petrus said. "I cannot wallow in the luxury of the royal palace while this is happening."

Perhaps more cognizant of possible royal displeasure at having their invitation rebuffed, Fiona said, "Please give our apologies to the king and queen. King Alistair, being a Grey Warden himself even if he's no longer part of the order, will, I think, understand."

Cauthrien looked skeptical and a little apprehensive, since she was not bringing these important guests back where she could keep an eye on them. "But what can just the two of you do?"

Petrus's smile was grim and wintry. "What Grey Wardens always have. What we must."

As they turned the last corner, Varel saw that Garevel had their people, even the wounded, turned out in polished armor in two stiff rows at the gate, leaving a ruler-straight aisle for the knight and her escort. It looked like everyone not out on errands or on guard duty had stopped what they were doing and come out to pay their respects to the fallen mabari and see Cauthrien and Maric's Shield off. The dog, now wrapped in sailcloth and packed with ice and coarse salt from a barrel they had found on the ship, was carried on a litter held by two of Cauthrien's people. As the bearers walked past each soldier, every one made the full formal salute.

Outside the gates, the cart was waiting for this sad burden, as well as the horses and surviving mabari. It was barely dawn, and the lack of light caused everything to take on a gray, unreal quality, which suited the somber parade. Few people were out so early, and those inclined to gawk at the procession were not willing to linger in the cold.

Cauthrien handed her sword over to a soldier, who took it away to stow in the cart, since she could not carry such a large weapon while riding, then mounted a horse her second was holding for her. The rest of Maric's Shield followed suit on their own steeds.

Varel saluted her again. "It's been an honor serving with you, ser. Safe journey, and farewell." Beside him, Garevel and the Wardens echoed the sentiment and gesture.

The knight gave him a nod. "Perhaps some day we'll meet again under better circumstances. Don't forget to send that report. Fiona, Petrus, you are always welcome at the royal palace, if you decide to return before you need to take ship to wherever it is you're going. Farewell, and may the Maker watch over you."

As the clip-clops of the horses' hooves and clicking of the dogs' nails on the paved street faded away, Garevel dismissed the soldiers back to their tasks. "Please excuse me, I'm going to go and breathe down the necks of the smiths working for us, ser, and see if they can't work a bit faster. Maverlies is on watch right now."

"What will you do now, sers?" Varel said to the Wardens.

A worrying light of religious fervor sparked in Petrus's eyes. "I am going to go to the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer to give thanks for our success and to pray."

"I can send someone to guide you there," Varel said.

The Warden held up his hand and shook his head. "No need, I saw it when we came in through the main gate."

"Still, the streets down here at the docks are a warren of alleys and can be confusing." Varel nodded to one of the gate guards, one of the few who was not a new recruit. "Evan, please escort Warden Petrus to the Chantry. I'll clear it with the sergeant." The soldier braced to attention.

"And I'm going to stay here, where it's warm," Fiona said in a very firm tone. "Are there any wounded you'd like me to look at?"

"Thank you for the offer, ser. Garevel set up the warehouse the Tevinters were staying in as an infirmary," Varel said.

Varel was about to return to his own work and the fireplace that heated his makeshift office when one of the gate guards stopped a boy from entering, and turned back when he recognized the young voice. "Tims?"

Ker's son grinned and ducked under the guard's arm when he saw Varel, waving a little piece of parchment at him. "Ser! Message from t' dwarf bank fer ye."

"Thank you," Varel said, dipping his hand into his belt pouch for a few bits.

Tims snatched the coins out of Varel's hand with alacrity and made them disappear into the depths of his ragged clothes. "How's Jacob, ser? Did he come with ye?" He looked around, as if expecting his friend to pop out from a warehouse at any moment.

"No, I'm afraid not, but I'm sure he misses you," Varel said when the boy's face fell.

"Oh. Gotta reply? Nah? Then I gots ta go," Tims said. "Got lotsa messages ta deliver!" He ran off, but not before sticking his tongue out at the guard; he was away with an impudent laugh before the guard could even raise his hand to box the boy's ear.

The note was from the dwarven bank's artificer, who suggested they bring the chest to the bank; if they succeeded in opening it, then they could both transfer any valuables directly to their vaults, and also keep the contents secret from prying eyes. Varel thought it was sound advice, and had some of the soldiers carry the chest to a wagon they had used to bring the things that needed repair; another was sent to the stable to fetch two of their horses.

At the bank, the sentries directed Varel and his escort to another entrance, this one much less ostentatious than the main gate, though it was not unguarded, and the reinforced doors were just as thick as the ones in front. A dwarf turned up with a pallet, which Varel realized was on rails, like the mine carts he had seen back in the silverite mine, but much less crude. Once the soldiers had heaved the chest down from the wagon and onto the pallet, he dismissed all but two of them back to the warehouse. 

The dwarf led Varel deeper inside, and he marveled at the ease with which the dwarf pulled the pallet with just one hand, when the chest had taken several soldiers - none of them weaklings - to lift. It was clear from the undecorated walls, the rails, and the minimal amount of lighting that this was a strictly utilitarian corridor, not meant to be frequented by clients.

The dwarf pushed a lever that opened a pair of doors to a workshop; the thick panels slid aside in silence by some mechanism invisible to Varel. Varel flinched when the sounds of hammers, shrieks of something in distress, wood being sawed, and strange clanking noises grew suddenly loud enough to be almost painful. The brightness was blinding after the dimness of the hall, and the heat was stifling. His nose wrinkled at the strange smells of an alchemical nature in the air, which mixed oddly with the fragrant scent of wood shavings and the hot metal of forges. Dwarves - and a few humans, to his surprise - were tinkering with mysterious contraptions at desks that contained shelves both large and small - some so tiny he wondered what sort of tools they could possibly hold. The area was remarkably free of the smoke he normally associated with smithies.

Fine rails snaked and criss-crossed the floor like a spiderweb, allowing the dwarf to tow the pallet to the largest and most cluttered corner of the room, separated from the rest of the area by stone walls, where another dwarf, who wore the same leather apron and practical clothes as the others, was hammering something delicate on a small anvil. The only differences Varel could see were the ornate jeweler's glass strapped over one eye, the multitude of pockets on the dwarf's apron, and a small gold badge on the shoulder.

The dwarf spun a wheel that raised the pallet up on its frame, and did something that made it tilt, sliding the chest onto a waiting table, and the thump as it dropped caught the other dwarf's attention. "Well, now, what's all this?" he said as he thrust whatever he had been working onto a shelf.

Varel had to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony. "You sent a message to me saying you would like to examine this chest."

"Oh!" Dismissing the other dwarf, the artificer put down his hammer, pushed the glass up to his forehead, and held out his hand. "I'm Bekram, master locksmith, and you must be Seneschal Varel. Frehveris told me you got this chest off Tevinters?"

Varel bent and shook the proferred hand. "Yes, that's right. Since the leader of these particular Tevinters was a mage, she suggested I might need another mage to counter the lock, but I wanted to first see if dwarven ingenuity could solve this puzzle."

"Well, you came to the right place." The artificer took out a roll of black velvet from a pouch on his belt and opened it on the table, revealing an array of polished metal tools, like straight fish hooks, each slightly different.

Varel took a prudent step back, because the Tevinter Imperials were known for their low senses of humor when it came to protecting their valuables. "Are you certain it has no traps?"

"Oh, the Tevinters are cunnin' buggers, so there could be," Bekram said with no hint of trepidation as he pulled on a pair of leather gloves and selected one particular tool from the roll. "But don't worry, I'm a professional."

The dwarf's confidence reassured Varel, though not so much that he would stand too close. "But there is no mechanism to open it. That's one reason why I thought a mage might be needed."

Bekram made a rude noise as he delicately probed various cracks and seams. "Sure sign it was made by an amateur. People are just goin' to want to open it even more if it looks mysterious. Pretty, though, and sturdy, I'll give 'em that."

It was true the chest was a work of art: the wood, though common oak, had been stained dark and polished to a high sheen, setting off the gleaming brass hinges and fittings. The metal loops on the sides used to carry it had been carved into elongated dragons, and the front was a dragon head, the handle clenched in its jaws.

It was all a bit too fanciful for Varel's tastes, but he could not deny the artistry and skill that had gone into it. "Do you think it will take you long to open it?"

"It'll take as long as it takes," the artificer said, sounding annoyed. "Depends on if I need to figure out both the locking mechanism and the correct sequence to open it, or just one of the two. The latter, as you can imagine, is more difficult."

"The correct sequence?" Varel had only thought of finding the means of opening the chest, not that there had to be a right way to do so.

"Sure! Press the right places in the wrong order, and the _least_ that could happen is the thing locks up, so's you'd need to hack it apart, and doin' that might damage whatever's inside. At worst, given that this is Tevinter work we're talkin' about, well, it just doesn't bear thinkin' on." Despite his cautionary words, Bekram carried on with his careful poking.

"But... how will you discover the correct order?" It seemed impossible to Varel, when a single mistake could not only undo all that work, but also maim or kill the dwarf.

"You know, every culture has its little quirks, and the Tevinters are no exception. They tend to use seven a lot - for the seven Old Gods, see? And they always include some sort of dragon motif on everythin' they make. If it doesn't have dragons on it, they use two, for the Maker and Andraste, or Hessarian and Andraste. It's so ingrained they don't even think about it, and that gives me a place to start."

The mention of 'seven Old Gods' struck up a resonance in Varel's memories and reminded him of what he had found some days ago; he dug around inside his belt pouch and took out the wax tablet he had found on the Tevinter mercenary leader's desk. "They used mercenaries to do their dirty work, and I found this on their leader's desk." He pointed out the tiny numbers inscribed into the dark grain. "Perhaps this can help."

Bekram took the tablet and pulled the jeweler's glass down over his eye. "Oh, I see. Careless of 'em to just leave this lyin' around."

"Yes, well, we were lucky enough to take them by complete surprise. But you must admit it's well hidden; it was only a trick of the light that allowed me to discover it at all. Can you make anything of them?"

The dwarf pulled out two slates and a piece of chalk from one of his many pockets to write down the numbers on one of them. Then he pushed the glass back up, measured the chest with a strip of leather that had been marked off at regular intervals with colored ink, and made notations on his slate. After studying the figures for a few moments, he drew pictures of the chest from different angles on the other slate with such swiftness and precision that Varel was amazed.

"Pretty sure I can figure out the mechanism itself," Bekram said, once he was finished. He stroked his luxuriant beard as he frowned down at the slate. "But these numbers, and this symbol..."

They both bent their heads over the puzzle. "It looks like a compass, does it not?" Varel said.

"Huh," the artificer said. "It does."

Varel turned the slate, so that the arrow on the symbol pointed upwards, and stared at the numbers, which were now upside down. "This makes no sense."

"So don't try. Don't look at the numbers as numbers - look at patterns," was the dwarf's suggestion.

Letting his eyes unfocus, Varel tried to do just that. Struck by a realization, he said, "They're not numbers, but pictures disguised as numbers. I think." He paused. "But I have no idea what they are supposed to depict."

"Huh. I think you're right." The artificer looked back and forth between his drawings and the numbers. "Not a sequence or a code - I thought that meant the chest has a combination lock, but -"

"A what?"

"Here, it's easier to show you," Bekram said, hopping up on a stool in order to take something from the top of a cabinet, and handed it to Varel. "This is a little somethin' I made when I was an apprentice."

Varel turned the elegant little device over in his hands. In shape it resembled a padlock, but the main body where the key would be inserted lacked a hole; it instead contained five tiny wheels lined up side by side, like rings looped on a string. On the rims of the wheels were engraved numbers, each as fine and clear as the letters the royal mint stamped on coins.

"It opens once you've turned the numbers in the right order." Bekram proceeded to call out the sequence.

Varel turned the wheels as instructed, and was a little startled when the bar popped open. "It's beautiful work, ser," he said as he handed it back. If this was Bekram's apprentice piece, then it was no wonder he was now a respected locksmith employed by a bank.

The dwarf gave it a dismissive glance before putting it back on top of the cabinet. "It's just one of the first things I made as an apprentice; I keep it around so's I remember how far along I've come. Anyway, this chest doesn't have a combination lock. No dials, see, and nowhere to put 'em. The measurements are all wrong."

"I wonder how you are supposed to interpret these. Are you supposed to go from left to right, or right to left?"

Bekram tugged on his beard. "I think... I think we're supposed to start at both sides, then move in."

Varel gave the chest a dubious look. "Both at the same time?"

"It depends on where the trigger points are. Anyway, see how the upside-down six and nine balance it all? Like two bookends - or a pair of hands." He cupped the slate with his own stubby hands to illustrate his reasoning.

"In that case, you would think they'd use the same number for both ends." Varel stared at the slate again and corrected himself. "No, you're right, they had to use six and nine, otherwise the little loops would face the same way."

"Loops?" Both Bekram and Varel stared at the metal loops, then at each other. "Well, why don't we follow the nug down this particular hole and see where it leads us?"

Varel watched, fascinated, as the artificer pulled down his glass again to examine the loops. Bekram used a thin, slender tool that resembled a stiletto to press on the outward-facing eye of one of the metal dragons; the tiny spot depressed, then the little jaws holding that end to the chest opened and the fangs retracted, and since the tail was curved into a spiral with an open end, that allowed Bekram to remove it.

"How did you know where to -" Varel started to say.

"It's a common trick, making the keys part of the object they open. I thought they looked just a bit too ostentatious," the dwarf said with satisfaction as he detached the other loop. "Hide 'em in plain sight, and also you can't lose 'em that way, see? As for how I knew where to press, well, _Tevinters._ It's not like they'd put the trigger in the arse." His beard twitched in a sly grin. "I would, though, but then I have a low sense of humor."

"That's a key?"

"Keys," Bekram said as he removed the other loop in the same manner.

"So does that mean there seven keys?" It sounded overly complicated to Varel.

"Naw, don't think so," the artificer said as he placed the loops on each side of the chest. "One key reveals another, and that one opens yet another. That's how it usually goes."

Varel thought for a moment, then reached out and reversed the one on the right, so that now they both matched the positions of the numbers. The dwarf gave him a sharp look, then nodded approval. "Now what?"

Bekram shrugged. "Look for patterns that match the numbers."

Having guessed correctly about the loops, Varel would have thought interpreting the next number-pictures would be easy, but it was not. The maker of the chest had engraved fanciful dragons in minute detail on the brass fittings, and it took time to scrutinize the entire surface for shapes that matched, and there were so many. Varel found himself being drafted when the dwarf slapped another jeweler's glass with a strap attached into his hand.

"Don't touch anythin', just point it out to me if you think you've found somethin'." The dwarf looked him up and down, then jerked a thumb at a low chair. "You'd better sit down, Long-Legs."

Varel shrugged and strapped the glass to his head and positioned it over his eye; at least he wasn't carrying buckets of night soil, and he trusted Garevel and Maverlies to keep an eye on things in his absence.

Together, he and Bekram found several candidates for each number, which the artificer narrowed down with a combination of experience and deduction and his clever little tools.

"Right," the dwarf said, looking up. "Let's see if we have to trigger the keys simultaneously. Since a human owned this chest, we'll see if you can reach both points at the same time. If you can, then odds are good they need to be used at the same time."

The dragon loops were already in place: one had its jaws clamped on what Varel would have thought was just an ornamental knob, the fangs sinking into a series of tiny slots, and the other had its tail inserted in a recess. Bekram had recognized the spikes on the fringe running along the dragon's spine as the bittings of a key. He reached out and saw that he could easily hold both of them.

"Right, looks like a simultaneous trigger to me," the artificer said. "You take the head, and I'll take the tail."

"Er, but what do I do?"

"Just press the thing forward, not too hard. On the count of three: one, two, three!"

Bekram twisted the key in his hand, and Varel pushed the dragon loop forward as ordered, and was surprised at the lack of resistance. The room was too noisy to hear any telltale clicks, but he jumped up out of the chair and away when he saw that two of the seven fangs in the jaws of the dragon's head had retracted from the handle.

The artificer had ducked down under the table; when nothing more happened, he raised his head over the edge to peek at the chest, then got back on his feet and reached up to pat Varel on the arm. "Good reflexes, but not necessary, at least not this time."

Feeling a little foolish, Varel sat back down and cleared his throat. "Only five left."

Bekram grinned at him as he removed both keys. "This business ain't for the faint of heart."

"Neither is night soil collection, ser," Varel muttered.

The dwarf did not look up. "What?"

"Nothing. Shall we go on?"

There was no actual work for Varel to do besides follow the artificer's commands, since he did not have the locksmith's vast experience with such devices. But being relegated to simple observation did not mean he was bored, as he was free to watch the dwarf investigate the locations of the other trigger points. As Bekram had suspected, most of them were hidden in the dragon engravings: under Bekram's patient manipulation, panels depressed and slid aside, revealing slots for the keys, and secret trays extruded themselves from the body of the chest. One by one, the fangs of the dragon head retracted out of the handle, until there was only one left.

Bekram blew out his breath, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his hands after spending such a long time hunched over the chest. Despite his weariness, he beamed and said, "Last one! I love this part."

"Surely this one will be the most difficult?"

Undaunted, the dwarf shrugged and said, "Probably, but I enjoy a challenge."

The last one apparently required both the keys be inserted in the same slot, somehow. Even Bekram was puzzled by this one, as the small size would seem to preclude this. No amount of manipulation allowed him to fit both at once.

"Are you certain there is no second slot?" Varel said.

"Sure am," Bekram said. "Every trigger's been opened by the one before it, and this is the only one left. I've found others, but they're traps."

Varel picked up one of the keys, which the dwarf had removed in preparation for opening the final lock, and turned it over in his hands. "Then if the solution is not in the chest, it must be in these."

The artificer opened his mouth, then shut it. "You know, you're right."

It did not take long for Bekram to discover the last keys hidden inside the mouths of the dragon loops, revealed when the dwarf pressed on the eyes that faced inward when they still hung from the box. Their heaviness had disguised their hollow natures. Both of the thin, blade-like keys fit easily in the single slot at the same time, and the last fang retracted.

Bekram grinned and made a dramatic flourishing motion at the box. Varel reached out and lifted up the lid, and his eyes widened when he saw the amount of gold in the chest.

"Huh. Bit anticlimactic, to be honest," the artificer said, less than impressed. But then, if he was the bank's own locksmith, he must have seen the much larger piles in the great vaults below.

Anticlimactic though it might be, the Vigil could use all that money, and more besides. Varel rose and bowed to the artificer. "Thank you for your assistance, Master Bekram."

"Just doin' my job," the dwarf said, waving Varel's thanks aside. He turned and called to one of the dwarfs nearby, this one young enough to have no facial hair yet. "Oi, Jeddick! Run up and fetch Freyveris, and tell her to bring her tally board and someone to take all this to the vaults."

After the young dwarf ran off on his errand, Bekram turned back to Varel and said, "Say, would you be willin' to sell me this chest?"

Varel had not thought of what to do with the chest after the contents had been removed, except for a vague notion of using it in the treasury. "Surely you, of all people, don't need a strongbox."

"Huh? Oh, no, but I do love tinkerin' with devices, and I ain't never seen anythin' quite like these mechanisms. I want to take 'em apart, study 'em." The artificer was already looking abstracted.

Though the dwarf had great skill when it came to locks and mechanisms, Varel's vast experience in dealing with nobles gave him an excellent advantage when it came to haggling over the price. In the end, Varel was very pleased with the negotiation; in addition to the fortune inside the chest, the sale of the container would pay for the artificer's services several times over.

Bekram dripped some wax onto a payment slip, set a square stone seal into it, and handed it to Varel. "Hey, if you ever need a job, come back here. I'd be glad to hire you."

Varel was nonplussed by the offer. "Why? I am not a clumsy man, but I haven't any of the skill with mechanisms you do."

"No, but you do have a logical mind, and that's the most important thing." The artificer gave the payment slip still in Varel's hand a rueful glance. "And you're a blasted sharp bargainer."

Deciding he had better not mention that bargaining with Bekram was child's play compared to dealing with nobles, Varel smiled and said, "Thank you; I'll bear your offer in mind."

Freyveris and her assistant, Dunter, picked their way across the room towards them, their immaculate livery looking very out of place in the workroom. Behind them were a pair of stout dwarf porters who looked wider than they were tall, dressed in livery that was much more plain and severe than the others.

Now that the artificer had solved the puzzle, he lost interest in the rest of the proceedings. Making shooing motions with his hands, Bekram said, "I've got work to do, so you all can get along back to your office after you're done countin'."

Ignoring Bekram, Fray peered into the chest as Dunter put down his counting board and began scooping the coins onto the table so that they could be separated into orderly stacks. "Well, well, look at what ye found, Varel! First ye capture the slavers, then ye somehow manage to take their ship, and now this! Wish I had yer luck."

Varel folded his arms, amused. "And since when did you need luck, Fray, much less mine? You can buy the entire arling on a whim."

"No one's ever called a banker a hero," Fray said with a sigh. Then she brightened. "But I guess the Ancestors saw fit to send me one as a client."

Varel snorted at the idea. "I'm no hero. I just did what had to be done."

Fray pointed her stylus at him. "And _that_ is why ye're a hero, and nothing ye say is goin' to change my mind."

Recognizing the futility of further argument, Varel closed his mouth and shrugged. It did not take long for Fray and Dunter to finish tallying the contents and also add the artificer's payment for the chest. Before the porters trundled off with the gold, now poured into sacks and put in yet another cart, they served as witnesses by adding their seals.

"Well, this should ease yer worries about the Vigil's finances," Fray said as she and Dunter walked with Varel back up to her office to finalize the transfer. The porters left in the opposite direction, pushing the cart deeper into the complex, on their way to the underground vaults. "Ye - well, the Vigil - will be pretty flush if Bann Esmerelle decides to buy your prize ship."

Varel was less confident. "We can use it, certainly, but we could also use much more."

Fray sighed. "Soldiers! So gloomy, so ready to look on the bad side. Things are already lookin' up for ye, what with Howe dead, ye rootin' out those slavers, and the Hero of Ferelden arrivin' in a few months to be yer new liege lady -"

"The what?"

"Oh, didn't ye know? That's what they're startin' to call her now." The dwarf grinned. "I hear it embarrasses her, though."

They had reached Fray's comfortable, opulent office by now, where she had Dunter bring tea and pastries; the delicious scents of toasted nuts and baked apple reminded Varel that breakfast had been hours ago, making him eager to wrap up his business so that he could find a proper meal. Still, the proprieties had to be observed.

"I just wish the Crown had picked someone other than a Cousland," Varel confessed over a delicate cup of fragrant tea. "Given what the late arl did to her family, I doubt she has anything kind to say about us."

Fray finished noting the transfer in the official ledger, adding her seal and signature, then pushed it over to Dunter to do the same in his role as witness. "I can't imagine she's too happy about it, either. Probably why she's draggin' her feet."

That had never occurred to Varel. "Do you really think so? I was told it was because she almost died of her injuries."

The dwarf gave him a disbelieving look as she handed Varel a receipt. "So she needs six months to recuperate? Really?"

Reminding himself that Fray had no experience of combat, Varel said, "It can take that long, yes."

"For us regular folks, sure, but ye can't tell me she doesn't have mages to speed her recovery."

That gave him pause, because it was true, especially if the rumors were right about Elethea Cousland traveling with two mages during the Blight. Could Fray be correct? Could the new Warden-Commander be just as reluctant to take up her new post as Varel was to have her here?

Varel took a despondent bite of his pastry. "I suppose it doesn't matter what her reasons are. We will have to work together - if she does not turn me out first."

Fray looked at him through the steam rising from her cup. "Take my advice, Varel, and write to her before ye fret yerself into a frothin' dither. Show her ye're a professional, that ye're nothin' like that old bastard of an arl. Ye need to report to her about the slavers anyway, right?"

"Yes, I do." And there was the matter of either recovering the old seals or having proper ones made, too. He resolved to write that letter as soon as he returned to the fortress. "Very well, Fray, I shall take your advice."

The dwarf beamed. "Good. Ye know I've never steered ye wrong."

Fray saw him out; Varel retrieved his sword and his bodyguards at the entrance and was astonished to see that it was close to sunset.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel wraps up the last of his business in the City of Amaranthine - but not all goes smoothly.

There was a sealed message waiting for Varel when he returned to the warehouse office after taking his supper with Ker and his cousins. After noting the wax seal of the City of Amaranthine, he broke it, then smirked as he read the terse message: he was to expect her treasurer after the noon meal tomorrow. Every word exuded the bann's outrage over the whole debacle - but not so much that she would not buy the slavers' ship. 

The next day, not long after Varel had sent a message off to one of the bank's assessors, and another to the ship to make sure the sailors had the vessel prepared for inspection, one of the gate sentries came to inform him the sheriff had arrived with the constable and a troop of city guardsmen to transfer the prisoners from the warehouse to the jail.

Trouble started straight away when Varel went out to meet the sheriff and a glum-looking Constable Aidan, and found the man had brought prison wagons with him - but not the required documents. It did not help the sheriff's cause when he stayed on his horse instead of dismounting as was polite, looking down at them all. Chevaliers had done the exact same thing during the occupation, so Varel found it difficult to rein in his antipathy when a _Fereldan_ official did it to him. The sheriff was the only one mounted; other than the drivers, the rest were on foot.

"You Seneschal Varel of Vigil's Keep? I'm here for the prisoners," the sheriff said. "Round 'em up and bring 'em out."

Varel frowned at this evidence of the bann's deliberate obstruction; he was certain the sheriff was too unimaginative to have thought of this on his own. "You know how this works, Sheriff: you present a writ - signed and sealed by you and the bann - to transfer the prisoners from my custody to yours, and I give you a copy of the receipt before I ever hand over a single one of them."

The loud rumbling of the wagons and hoofbeats on the paved street attracted the attention of the Grey Wardens, as well as Garevel and Maverlies. Varel saw with approval that Garevel had passed some surreptitious signal to their own people, and soon the sheriff's delegation was surrounded by curious but alert soldiers. Varel knew he had the moral high ground, but sometimes he had to defend it with a show of force.

"Surely we don't need to go through all that rigamarole just for foreign slaver scum!" the sheriff said. "They're off to the hangman for certain!"

"On the contrary, it is even more important to follow the procedure in this case, especially since I must present a full report to the Crown, not to mention the commander of Maric's Shield." Varel stared the other man down. "This will be done properly, or not at all."

The sheriff's lip curled. "I had no idea you cared so much about these foreigners."

"I don't. What I do care about is making certain the process is followed to the letter." Varel gestured to the open gate. "We'll wait until you return with the proper documents. The prisoners aren't going anywhere until then."

"Arl Howe would never -"

Varel took great satisfaction in interrupting the other man, though he did not let himself show it. "Arl Howe is dead."

Face turning red, the sheriff opened his mouth, but Aidan put a hand on the man's arm and said something too low for Varel to hear. Only then did the sheriff look around and notice the Vigil's soldiers, who now hemmed them in on all sides. Not one of them had placed a hand on a weapon, but the threat was there. Varel regretted not bringing his own sword.

"I'm sure the Crown and the Hero of Ferelden will appreciate your proper handling of this matter." Varel thought a mention of the new arlessa should rattle the man enough to get him to leave.

The sheriff did not pale, but his expression did grow stony at the mention of the arling's new ruler; Varel had heard the town criers shouting the news as he and the others infiltrated the city hidden on Ker's cousins's barges or the wagons carrying the items from the Vigil to be repaired. Perhaps the bann had taken her displeasure out on this particular underling.

Deciding he did not like the odds, the sheriff spat, the gobbet landing not far from Varel's feet, and wheeled his horse around. "As you're such a stickler for the rules, I'll be back with that writ. Come on, boys."

The constable gave Varel a dour look as he and his guardsmen turned to follow. Varel watched the awkward scramble as the drivers struggled to turn the prison wagons around in the cramped space, then said to Garevel, "I think we'd better post extra guards on the gate."

Garevel nodded as he dismissed the soldiers back to their tasks and walked with Varel back to the warehouse office. The Wardens came along with them. "Looks like trouble waiting to happen. What do you suppose the bann was trying to accomplish?"

"I don't know," Varel said. "Perhaps she thought hiding or getting rid of the Tevinters would throw the arbiter off her trail. If the evidence disappeared on route, well, she could say whatever she liked."

"Such as?" Petrus said.

"She could say it was part of a conspiracy to discredit her, or accuse the Crown of meddling in local affairs - which would garner her immediate support from the rest of the Bannorn." Varel shrugged. "I don't know how it is done in the Anderfels, but Fereldan nobles have always stopped squabbling amongst themselves and banded together to counter any threat to their independence. Depending on how convincing she is, she could gain quite a few allies."

"They've gone to war for far less," Garevel said. "Like elopements, wool... an apple tree."

"Insulting your dogs," Fiona said with a crooked smile.

"Oh, _that_ would rile up the entire nation, nobles and freemen alike," Varel said with a chuckle. "Our nobles are a touchy bunch."

Petrus's eyes widened a little in disbelief, where a more demonstrative man would be gaping. "I can see that the other things would be upsetting, but an apple tree? How - are you trying to trick the foreigner?"

"No trick, ser," Varel said. "It's true."

"How would she explain away the testimony of their captives and the incriminating documents you found, I wonder?" Fiona said. "That is damning evidence, even if it didn't directly implicate her."

"Documents can be forged." Varel sighed. "And people can be bribed to say anything - or be intimidated into saying nothing." The captives, he was certain, would be too cowed to speak out against the bann.

"And the ship?" Petrus jerked his thumb at where the masts of the Tevinter ship were visible above the roofs of the warehouses.

"Harder to hide, true, but once she buys it and has the ship repainted and flying her colors, it won't be a Tevinter ship anymore." Varel showed them the message the bann had sent.

The Grey Warden looked incredulous. "But that ship looks very different from the rest of the vessels in the harbor! It stands out like a warhorse among cows!"

Fiona, perhaps because she was used to Orlesian court intrigue, was more sanguine. "Appearances matter, Petrus. You've been fighting darkspawn so long you've forgotten how to deal with human subtlety and deception."

Petrus grunted. "You... may be right. But there is still the mage, not to mention my new conscript."

Once he was inside, Varel hung up his cloak and sat down at his desk. "Perhaps the bann thinks she can bribe the templars - or make him disappear somehow." He hesitated, mindful of the agreement he had made to Ker to keep the smuggling tunnels beneath the city a secret. Surely they could not be relevant... but who knew how extensive they were? "As for your conscript, you are taking him away."

Fiona shook her head as she went to the fireplace to warm her hands. "The Chantry would not like an apostate escaping their grasp at all, though I doubt they would care about the captain. There would be a tremendous uproar if the mage disappeared en route. Questions would be asked in a very pointed fashion."

"Yes, which is why I won't hand him or the rest of the prisoners over without a writ," Varel said. "If he does escape custody somehow, let Bann Esmerelle answer those questions - if she can."

Garevel had an uneasy look on his face. "I would've just handed them over without a second thought."

"It can't have escaped your notice that the sheriff tried this tactic after Ser Cauthrien left," Varel said. "You have to keep accurate records in these matters, especially now, when our liege lady is away and not here to support us. That way, if you are ever called upon to give an account of your actions, you have evidence to back them up."

Looking thoughtful, Garevel nodded. "Yes, ser. Working for the late arl has made me sloppy in certain ways of thinking."

Thinking of his own knee-jerk reaction the other day, when he had contemplated hiding knowledge of the soldiers who had participated at the Highever massacre from their new arlessa, Varel said, "Yes, he expected people to do his bidding without question. Besides, it was unhealthy to ask for answers."

Garevel scowled. "Yes, it was. Well, if there's nothing else, I'll go arrange for those extra guards on the gate."

Varel shook his head; Garevel nodded to him and the Grey Wardens before he left.

"Do you think the bann will try any more of her dirty tricks?" Fiona said. "Petrus tells me you expect her to try to stop you from leaving the city."

"Just a precaution," Varel said. "In truth, with the money safely deposited in the bank, I don't really think she'll try to harass us any further after this latest attempt. This is just her gnashing her teeth." His voice went dry as he jerked his head towards the door. "Having this many soldiers about should deter her from more physical confrontations."

Petrus grinned. "I think that was no accident."

Varel smiled. "I did take that into account when we first planned all this, yes. It's best to prepare a quick escape before you tweak the dragon's tail in her own lair. I'll be glad to get back to the Vigil after all this is done."

The stout stone walls of the old fortress were more than thick enough to shield them the bann's wrath. Here in the city, they were all within her reach. The city guards would not bother them, but there were other dangers. Garevel had made sure none of their soldiers went out alone while running errands, and had not allowed them any leave.

Fiona turned, and Varel noticed she and Petrus were both still huddled in their cloaks, and all but hugging the hearth. The huge warehouse was pretty drafty despite this sheltered corner, Varel had to admit. "Speaking of which, when will we return?" she said.

Varel reached over to the box and tossed another log onto the fire. Despite the sudden flurry of sparks that fountained up, neither of the Wardens stepped back. "After I've completed the sale of the ship, the smiths are finished repairing the things we brought, and the supplies we purchased are delivered and packed on the wagons. We might be able to leave as soon as tomorrow or the next day."

He wondered if the Grey Wardens were growing bored, now that all the excitement was over, and had a vague feeling that, as he was their host, he should do something about it. It was the wrong season for the usual sorts of entertainments, like hunting, feasts, and tournaments, neither seemed the sort to visit brothels, and he was not sure it was safe for them to wander about the city, in any case. Not without an escort - the presence of which might either insult them or chafe them. The sooner he got their very important guests back to the Vigil, the better.

Petrus announced his intention to go pray at the Chantry again, and frowned when Varel insisted a soldier should accompany him. "I do not need a nanny, Seneschal. I know the way."

"I'm afraid I must insist, ser," Varel said. "I know you are a warrior without peer, but you said yourself that you are unused to human subtleties. There are dangers here in the city you have never encountered on the steppes of your homeland. The soldier will not disturb you at your prayers, I assure you."

The other man opened his mouth to protest, but Fiona gave Varel some unexpected support. "He's right, Petrus. When was the last time you spent any period of time in a city?"

Petrus directed a ferocious scowl at his fellow Warden for this seeming betrayal. "I don't see how that is relevant."

Fiona sighed exasperation. "Darkspawn are very straightforward; they just try to kill you in the most horrifying of ways. People, on the other hand, are much trickier about it. Listen to the seneschal; he knows the city - you don't. It's as simple as that."

"Hmph!" Petrus glared at Varel. "You would have someone follow me even if I refused your escort, wouldn't you?"

Varel was unapologetic. "Yes, ser."

To Varel's surprise, this admission made Petrus's lips twitch. "Then I suppose I have no choice but to accept."

"Thank you, ser." Varel stood and went out to speak to one of the sentries, who trotted off to find her replacement, then turned back to the Warden. "Your escort will be waiting for you at the gate."

Petrus's lips twitched again. "Very efficient." He began to stride out the door, but then he turned back. "Ah, when did you say the bann's underling would be coming by, Seneschal?"

"After dinner, ser. Why do you ask?"

"I wish to accompany you."

Varel raised his brows in mild surprise, as did Fiona's. "I thought you were affected by seasickness."

Petrus clenched his jaw tight at the reminder. "I am, but I am curious about how you intend to make the sale. Ships do not often come my way in my line of work." He paused. "Fortunately for us all."

Suppressing a shudder at the thought of darkspawn learning how to sail, Varel said, "I have no objection, certainly, though you may find it a tedious process."

"Not every moment is spent in desperate battle with the darkspawn," Petrus said, waving the warning aside. "Much of my work consists of watching and waiting."

"You mentioned the dwarves at the bank were reluctant to allow outsiders into their archives," Fiona said. "If you're going that way already, Petrus..."

Petrus nodded. "That was my thought, too. We could give you that letter you asked for, Seneschal, but the presence of a Grey Warden would do the same and get us prompt service."

Varel chuckled. The dwarves would be as surprised as if being presented with a shark instead of a herring. "Yes, you're right."

"Then I will return in time for dinner." Petrus glanced at Fiona.

"I'll be teaching the troops here what precautions to take if they have to fight darkspawn, in the meantime," the elf said. She wrapped her cloak more tightly about herself. "Preferably somewhere warm."

"Thank you, ser," Varel said, giving the elf a grateful look.

Petrus took himself off, and Garevel came a few moments later to retrieve Fiona for the first of the lessons. Varel was finally able to turn his attention to the last of the minutia of their departure. Their horses had to be retrieved from the stables, their wagons from a nearby farmer's empty field, since they could hardly clutter up the narrow streets of the city, pack the supplies, loot they were keeping, and repaired items, and pay money all round.

After the noon meal, Bann Esmerelle's treasurer arrived, looking sour and harried; if Varel worked for the bann, no doubt he would look much the same. With the treasurer was a human representative of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, who had the tanned face, sun-bleached hair, and rolling walk of one who used to be a sailor.

"I'm the assessor," she said with a cheerful grin, showing them the badge pinned to her shoulder. "Now, where's this ship I'm supposed to look at?" When they went outside and Varel pointed out the ship to her, or rather, the masts that were visible behind the warehouse, she whistled in admiration. "Lookit those masts and sails! What a beauty!"

Knowing he would have to clamber up the ship's side and might have to go into the tight spaces in the hold, Varel did not take his greatsword, but rather the same longsword he had used in the raid, and hung a buckler on the scabbard at his hip.

Their little group dodged around the busy train of carts that were trundling into and out of the gate, and the stream of burly porters unloading them at Maverlies's efficient direction. Items that had already been inventoried and sorted were being packed onto their own wagons. Garevel was supervising it all; he raised a hand at Varel when he saw him, but was too busy to speak, and it was too noisy to hold a conversation in any case.

They found a boatman - not Ker, but one of his innumerable relations - willing to take them out to the ship. They made an impressive but odd little troupe: Varel, his two bodyguards, Petrus - with all their armor and weapons - the treasurer, and the assessor. The barge rode low in the water by the time they had all boarded.

They had been blessed with clear weather the last few days, but now Varel could see clouds gathering to the north, heavy gray masses that portended more than just flurries of snow. The wind had picked up, stirring the waves and cutting right through his armor and cloak like flensing knives. The Grey Warden had one hand clutching his own cloak, and the other gripping the side of the barge hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Petrus's jaw was clenched so hard Varel could see a muscle jumping; judging from the man's greenish pallor and the sweat beading on his face despite the cold, he was keeping his gorge down through sheer force of will.

Despite the weight and rough sea, the burly boatman poled them out to open water with practiced ease. The sailors on the ship spotted them and waved; it was clear they recognized Varel, because after a flurry of activity a rope ladder was unrolled, the weighted ends thumping against the wooden planks as soon as the boatman maneuvered his barge alongside.

"Could you take us around the ship?" the assessor said. "Slowly, please."

The boatman raised his brows at Varel, who nodded. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he leaned on the pole, moving his barge into the flow of the current so that he could conserve his strength. The assessor took out a wax tablet from her belt pouch and scrutinized the sides of the ship. The treasurer kept trying to catch a glimpse of her notes, but Varel saw it was pointless to try, since she wrote in some sort of code or shorthand. As they came back around to the side where the rope ladder was waiting, Varel pressed an amount of coins into the boatman's hand that ought to be sufficient to retain his services for the return trip. The boatman's pleased grin confirmed Varel's guess.

Varel waited until the others had climbed up, with varying degrees of grace and speed, before taking his turn at the ladder, while a sailor tossed another rope down to the boatman to tether his barge to the ship. Petrus took up a strategic position near the rail, though whether to be close enough to lose his breakfast over it or in order to watch everything and everyone at once, Varel could not tell.

Once Varel was on the deck, the man in nominal charge of the skeleton crew of sailors came towards him, a worried expression on his sun-bronzed face.

"Glad ta see ye, ser," the man said as he shook hands with Varel. "Wind's pickin' up somethin' fierce; looks like 'tis whippin' a storm fer certain sure tanight or tamorrow. Had ta have t' boys furl some of t' sails. We'll need more hands ta handle her if ye don't git her under cover."

"Wise of you, but your lack of shelter should no longer be a problem." Varel said. He introduced the treasurer, who was looking around with guarded calculation, and the assessor, who beamed at a fellow sailor. "They're here to make an inspection of the ship."

Taking that as her cue, the assessor trotted after the man as he beckoned to her to follow him into the hold. Varel, meanwhile, took the treasurer to the captain's cabin and the other accommodations, with Petrus trailing them like a pale, silent ghost. The Warden certainly had the sickly pallor to pass for one. The treasurer frowned at the bare walls and shelves and cupboards, but Varel returned him only a bland look when the other man directed a glower of some disapproval at him. Varel was hardly going to apologize for taking their rightful spoils.

By the time they finished poking through the cabins and the galley, the assessor had climbed back up from the hold, and was now prowling through the vessel from bow to stern, muttering under her breath as she took notes on her wax tablet. She even took to the ratlines, kicking off her shoes and pulling off her socks to reveal tough-soled feet, so that she could swarm up the ropes like an agile monkey.

"Well?" the treasurer demanded, when she fetched back up at their little group in the course of her perambulations.

Ignoring the treasurer's rudeness, the assessor bestowed a cheerful smile upon them all. "No problems that I could see. No signs of damage, normal amount of leakage below, the sails haven't been neglected. A very trim little ship. Well, maybe not so little."

Thanks to the subtlety of their surprise attack, the ship had sustained little damage in the fighting. The treasurer looked disgruntled at this news, perhaps because he had no reason to drive the price down.

Varel raised his brows at the treasurer. "Shall we continue the rest of this conversation inside?"

The treasurer glanced around at the sailors working at various tasks and watching them with open curiosity, and nodded. "The captain's cabin?"

"Certainly." Varel turned to the assessor. "Do you mind waiting for us?"

The woman shrugged and jerked a thumb at the railing as she sat down on a handy coil of rope to put her socks and boots back on. "I have to wait 'til you're done so I can hitch a ride back with you, anyway."

"We were 'bout ta brew up some tea when you folks showed up," the sailor in charge said. "Ye're welcome ta join us, miss." He grinned, tapping a finger on a leather flask tucked in a pouch at his hip. "Just t' thing fer a cold day like this."

The assessor brightened at both offers. "Sure!"

Pleased the woman would be in good hands, Varel led the way back to the aftcastle. The treasurer glanced back when Petrus followed them into the small room, but did not object to his presence when Varel closed the door. Varel saw no reason to prolong the negotiations, and told the treasurer his price point blank.

The treasurer squawked and whined as a matter of course, acting as if he were being forced to part with his own flesh rather than his employer's money. Thinking of the sad state of the Vigil's coffers, even after the new infusions, Varel did not yield an inch on the final price. Considering the amounts such seaworthy ships went for, it was an excellent bargain; the bann and her treasurer knew it - and so did he. Behind the treasurer, Petrus rolled his eyes; Varel kept his face straight with difficulty.

"If Bann Esmerelle can't pay the price, perhaps Lord Eddelbrek will," Varel said.

At the mention of his employer's rival, the treasurer grimaced, then scoffed. "What could the lord of the farmers possibly want with a ship? All his holdings are inland!"

"He could use it to ship grain. There have been rumors he would like to develop Anselm's Reef into a harbor, saving ships from wrecking there every year at the same time."

The treasurer's face was a picture of horror and apprehension before he got it under control, but Varel spotted it, and knew the threat had touched a nerve. Of course, the master of the Feravel Plains had been talking about building a harbor for years, but never actually got around to it.

Still, the man tried to rally. "Anselm's Reef is a death trap! There's no way he can build a harbor there!"

"There are other anchorages nearby - oh, nothing as grand as Amaranthine's harbor, but deep enough for that ship to dock."

Finally, the treasurer gave in under the threat of allowing the prize to slip out of his - the bann's - fingers, so he had little choice. Varel smiled, careful to keep any triumph out of it, and said, "Shall we return to shore and go to the bank to have our agreement finalized?"

The bland tone was not enough to soothe the treasurer, because he directed a glower at Varel and made a curt gesture at the door. With a mental shrug, Varel did so, leading the way back out. As long as the man signed the agreement, Varel could ignore the discourtesy. He had, after all, borne up under much worse.

Petrus had started to look a little bit better on the deck of the larger, more stable ship, but now he blanched again as he looked down at the barge bobbing up and down on the waves. As they waited for the other two to climb down first, Varel patted the poor man's shoulder and made a note to pick up a remedy for nausea at an apothecary.

The Grey Warden scowled at Varel, who began to draw back when he realized his familiar gesture might have offended the other man, until he saw a glint of self-deprecating humor in Petrus's eyes. "I have spent much of my lifetime fighting darkspawn. I thought I was tough, yet I find myself - and my stomach - undone by something so simple as moving water."

"I know it doesn't feel like it, but it does pass," Varel said. "If it makes you feel any better, I was sick, too, the first time the ship I was working on passed through a storm, despite my experience in boats."

Petrus grimaced. "If being on a sea that is calm can make me feel like throwing up every meal I have ever eaten in the last sennight, I hate to think of what I would do if I were caught in a storm." He shook himself. "Well, the sooner we get into that boat, the sooner we can be back on dry, solid land."

The trip back was uneventful, thank the Maker, though Petrus looked as if he wished it were smoother. The Grey Warden looked a little unsteady on his feet once he stepped out of the barge; Varel made sure to stand near the man in case he needed to provide a helping hand, but Petrus soon found his balance as they walked to the Dwarven Merchants' Guild Bank to have the agreement written, witnessed, signed, and sealed. 

The bank guards took their weapons, of course, though Petrus was reluctant to relinquish his, scowling through the whole process. The assessor shook hands with all of them, then breezed past the guards and into the bank.

Before Varel stepped into the main hall of the bank, he whispered into the ear of one of his bodyguards. The woman raised her brows, glanced at Petrus, then gave Varel a nod of understanding. Varel slipped some coins into her hand and dismissed her to her task. The soldier should return in plenty of time, since they would be occupied with the banker for a long while.

Fray, her face wreathed with a professional smile, came out to escort them all into her office, passing pastries and cups of tea all round as her assistant hurried about to provide additional seats for them. Varel provided the banker with the harbormaster's document, which attested the Tevinter ship was a legitimate prize, taken in Amaranthine's waters. This, too, had to be done just as properly as the transfer of the prisoners.

The dwarves were competent and efficient, and soon they had a simple contract written up that satisfied both Varel and the treasurer. Varel found his palms sweating as a new stick of sealing wax was brought in, heated with a candle, and dripped onto the special vellum the dwarves used for contracts. The treasurer warmed his ring in the flame, and set it into the wax, then it was Varel's turn. Instead of outraged cries of _Fake!_ , the others just waited in silence as he pressed down the seal.

Petrus, who had been observing all this in silence, was surprised when he was asked to sign his name as witness, but complied with the dwarf's request without demur. The Warden even had a signet ring, a deceptively simple one of a griffon, yet carved with exquisite detail, which he used to place his own seal. Then it was time for Fray to stamp the ornate guild seal, a heavy, gem-encrusted block of stone that required two hands to lift, onto the document. Varel breathed out a silent sigh of relief when it was done.

Recalling his manners now that the agreement was finalized, the treasurer shook hands with Varel and took his leave; the man did not seem to be looking forward to reporting to the bann. 

"What a stingy sourpuss," Fray muttered.

Varel was not sure if she was referring to the bann or her underling. "It comes of working for the bann. Nevermind - please put the payment into the Vigil's accounts, setting aside a fair portion for Maric's Shield. Please make the arrangements with the branch in Denerim for that."

Fray nodded. "Of course! Do ye want yer coin now?"

"Yes, please."

Dunter, Fray's assistant, brought out a tray with a pile of tiny cloth pouches, fat with coin. It was enough to make their newly promoted recruits feel rich, but not, Varel hoped, enough for thieves to attempt to rob them, at least if they stayed together in a group.

Now that all that money was safely recorded and placed in the great dwarven vaults somewhere deep in the bowels of their massive stone building, Varel relaxed. Even after paying for the assessor's services, the bank's fees, setting aside the shares for Maric's Shield, the soldiers, rewards for the boatmen, the sailors, and compensation for the captives, what remained was still quite a tidy sum. Together with what they had gotten for the spoils, he did not have to fear running out of money for everything the Vigil needed.

It was not much, compared to what the Vigil's coffers used to hold before Arl Howe embarked on his mad schemes, but having some sort of reserve eased his mind and the weight on his shoulders. Now, if only the new Commander of the Grey would hurry up and come take up her duties, he would not feel quite so beleaguered. He ignored the small anxious whisper in a corner of his mind that told him it would not be easy, dealing with a Cousland.

Surely it would be easier to deal with her than the late arl. Surely.

"Been a pleasure doin' business with ye, Varel, as usual," Fray said. She beamed as she held out a thick, stubby hand for Varel to shake.

"The feeling is, as always, mutual. And thank you, Fray, for everything." Varel trusted she would understand all the nuances.

Fray waved his thanks away. "Just doin' my job." She glanced at the pouches. "I take it this means ye'll be leavin' soon?"

Varel nodded. "Tomorrow, yes, at dawn. There is another matter I would like to discuss with you."

Petrus spoke before Varel could. "The seneschal tells me you do not allow outsiders to search through your archives. Understandable, but there is a need."

Fray's lips quirked into a wry smile. "It wasn't necessary to bring out the siege engines, Varel! A letter from the Grey Wardens would've sufficed. Ye didn't have to bring an actual Warden."

Varel smirked as he put the packets into his belt pouch. "Yes, well, Petrus seems to think his presence would cut through all the bureaucracy."

The dwarf looked up at the Warden. "And ye'd be right, ser. Follow me, then."

Fray led them down to the lower levels, where the dwarves kept everything of value, from information to gold. Like the hall leading to the locksmith's workshop, the decorations, mosaics, and statuary grew plainer until they disappeared altogether, indicating it was not a space shown often to clients.

The door to the archives was much smaller and more modest than the mechanical ones that guarded the locksmith's shop, but the sheer amount of books and scrolls inside made Varel's eyes widen. It was the largest library he had ever seen, with bookcases that reached up to the high ceiling, the top shelves only reachable with tall ladders, and rank upon rank of racks marched into the distance, every pigeonhole occupied with a scroll. Reflectors and lightwells had been placed in strategic locations to illuminate the vast, hushed space, but oil lamps, their dangerous contents bound in glass and brass, waited to be lit once darkness fell. Varel took a deep breath of the parchment-scented air and smiled.

The archivist came up to them, frowning at this invasion of outsiders into his domain, then fell all over himself in a most gratifying way when he realized a Grey Warden wished to consult his records. The order was riding high, thanks to one of their number ending the Blight; Petrus could do no wrong, and he could have commanded nearly anything he wished. Aging, yellowing maps were brought forth, scribes were summoned, and long-held dwarven secrets were disgorged.

Fray's lips took on a sardonic twist at seeing the archivist's abrupt change of attitude, then turned to Varel. "If I don't see ye before ye leave tomorrow, safe journey."

Varel exchanged one last handshake with her. "Thank you, Fray."

An hour or so later, Varel was holding a large leather case containing detailed maps of the arling, which had been marked with the known entrances to the Deep Roads. There were a distressing number of them.

"Most of them will have fallen to ruin, after all this time," the archivist said, making a face, this time at the implied inaccuracy of his records, not his uninvited guests.

"They will all have to be investigated, regardless," Varel said, tucking the case under his arm. Whether they could do anything about them was another matter. The Vigil had more immediate needs that needed to be filled, and yet sealing those vulnerabilities was important, too. The known vulnerabilities, in any case; there had to be others out there that were undocumented, traps for the unwary.

"I don't envy you," the dwarf said. "Is there anything else you require, sers?"

"That is all for now, thank you," Petrus said, giving the archivist a bow that the dwarf made haste to return.

A very junior scribe, young enough to sport no beard, was assigned to lead them back up the winding hallways to the main entrance, where they retrieved their weapons and their escort. The soldier offered a small rag pouch to Varel, which he exchanged for the map case.

The daylight was almost gone when the bank guards opened the grand doors for their little party.

"Well, it's high time we returned to the warehouse. Where they will be serving bread, salted pork and cheese for supper. Again." Varel sighed. "I'm heartily sick of it, even if you're not." Heavy amounts of salt were needed to preserve most foods for sea voyages, and tended to result in monotonous diets.

The Grey Warden chuckled as he walked along beside Varel. "If you knew what goes into a Grey Warden field ration, you would not complain."

Varel gave the other man a curious glance. "What does go into a Grey Warden ration?"

"Rocks and gravel, or at least that is what it tastes like. Bread, salted pork, and cheese is quite an improvement." Petrus glanced at the darkening sky. "Did I hear you right? We will be leaving tomorrow?"

"Yes, it's too late now to start the journey back to the Vigil. We'll start out at dawn, even if the late risers are bound to grumble." Varel lowered his voice. "We are sitting targets here, which is why I have been driving Garevel to wrap up our business here as soon as possible, and once the prisoners are properly transferred."

"Good. I am eager to follow up on those Deep Roads entrances." The Grey Warden gave Varel a shrewd look. "It is not a solution, unfortunately. Even if you had the wherewithal to seal every one of them, there may be others, and the darkspawn know how to dig. Badly and clumsily, but they are persistent."

"I am aware, ser," Varel said with a grimace. "But we must start somewhere."

They needed more soldiers, more scouts, perhaps a surveyor or two, someone who knew stonework... The new pile of money that had been added to the Vigil's accounts seemed to shrink right before Varel's eyes to something quite inadequate for all the tasks. Then he firmly pushed the tangle of his thoughts aside. One thing at a time. It was still winter, which would curtail any possible exploration, and any actual sealing, if it could be done at all, would have to wait until spring. No one could work in howling blizzards or storms or in freezing cold.

Petrus gave him a sympathetic look, as if he had guessed the thoughts that had marched across Varel's mind. "I will help you as best I can before I must leave."

That offer was a blasted sight better than the late arl's deliberate obstruction. Varel said a grateful, "Thank you, ser."

Varel firmly put out of his mind the question of just how much help a foreign Grey Warden could provide.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel returns to Vigil's Keep, where the Grey Wardens, who have been watching him closely all this time, might finally reveal more than just dark hints.

Varel's heart lifted at the sight of the Vigil as he turned his horse east from the Pilgrim's Path and heard the horn call that announced them. He was very much looking forward to a bath, a hot meal, and a warm spot by a roaring fireplace, in that order.

The dark line he had seen the day before their departure from the city had coagulated into a dark, roiling mass; at dawn, flurries had whipped through the streets like powdery froth upon the blustery ocean winds. By the time the Vigil came within sight an hour or so before noon, snow was falling more heavily, though not enough yet to impede their mounts and wagons, and the sun was only visible as a dim circle behind the thick gray clouds. It was perfect weather for an ambush, with the snow reducing visibility, but no darkspawn or bandits took advantage of it to attack them. That could be due to their numbers, or perhaps to the scouts Garevel had patrolling up and down the column to keep everyone in constant contact.

Riding as Varel was at the head of the cavalcade with Garevel and the Grey Wardens, he was in an excellent position to see Rullens coming down the ramp to the outer courtyard, smiling in welcome.

"Welcome back, Varel."

Varel dismounted with the aid of a stool a groom brought, and shook hands with the captain. "It's good to be back, Rullens. I'm glad to see the Vigil is not, in fact, a smoking ruin." He was pleased to find he was not as stiff as expected; all of those grueling sessions the armsmaster had made him go through to regain his condition had not been in vain.

Rullens chuckled at the joke, then glanced at the tail end of the procession, where the full wagons were lumbering up in the rear, and grinned. "Well, look at all that! Were you able to get everything we need?" 

"Yes. I'll give you all the details in private, but I can tell you now our financial situation is no longer quite as dire."

"Good news indeed!" The captain sobered after a moment. "Any casualties to report?"

"No, thank the Maker," Varel said, watching as Garevel had Maverlies organize those mounted into an orderly line so that grooms could take their horses and free the soldiers to go help unload the wagons. "How are the ones you brought back here doing? Are they all right?"

"Healed up enough to be back on light duty," Rullens said, giving his second a welcoming nod as Garevel brought Varel's sword along with his own from where they had been stored in a wagon.

It was going to take a while for the soldiers to bring everything into the keep proper, since the wagons could not go up the wooden ramp. It made a fine defensive chokepoint, but it was also a blasted nuisance when it came time to transport large items with any speed. Garevel rounded up a few soldiers and went up the ramp, returning a few moments later with the wheelbarrows the groundskeeper used for hauling compost and manure. Varel hoped either Samuel or Garevel had cleaned them first.

"Did Ser Cauthrien stop here on her way back to Denerim?" Varel said as he squinted against the blowing snow.

"Yes, she did, but only just long enough to eat a hot meal and rest the horses, then they left again after about an hour. I'll wager she's glad she hurried on ahead of this coming storm." Rullens blew out his breath, which formed a white plume that melted some of the snow drifting down, and gave the gray sky a wary look. "Looks like we're in for a real blow."

Varel thought the captain's weather sense was right; the wind had been gusting hard all day, and the snow was falling more and more heavily. He hoped the refugees camped in front of the city's gates were able to find better shelter than tents; a storm such as this was shaping up to be could kill anyone caught out in the open.

"Shame about that one mabari, but considering how outnumbered you were, you were, it could've gone much worse."

"Yes." Varel still felt more guilt over the dog than for the sailors he had killed.

Rullens shook himself. "Well, there's no need for you to stand here in the snow; I can handle things out here. Go on, get in."

Varel hesitated, looking back at the wagons. "There's still much to be done." There was also all that work that must have piled up in the last sennight in his absence, but that would be done indoors.

"It can wait until you've eaten and refreshed yourself," was Rullens's firm suggestion. "Besides, I need to take Garevel's report. No need for both of us to freeze our arses off."

"Very well. Then please let the housekeeper and armsmaster know their long-awaited supplies are here." The stablemaster, Varel saw, already looked very pleased when he saw the saddles and tack on the horses had been repaired. He hoped the others would feel as grateful.

Varel turned to see the Grey Wardens had dismounted, though Petrus kept hold of his horse's reins, fending off a groom as he went to see to his mount personally, as he had when he had first arrived at Vigil's Keep. Rullens watched with interest as two soldiers brought the former sea captain forward from where he had been riding in one of the wagons. With his hands bound behind him, the man looked sullen and resigned - not to mention cold - but Varel had to give him credit for being smart enough not to try and escape. Not that he would have had much of a chance, a foreigner stranded in the middle of winter in a country far from Tevinter, without friends, a ship, money, or supplies.

Petrus returned in only a few moments; since he had been persuaded not to fight on his horse, he had left his mount's armor behind. "Is there a place I can put my conscript? He will have to bide there while I make the preparations."

"Preparations? What preparations?" Varel said, but the Grey Warden shook his head and did not elaborate.

"There must be a dungeon around here somewhere," Fiona said as she held on to the hood of her cloak, which the wind was trying to pluck out of her grasp. "I've never known a castle that didn't have one."

"We do, in fact." Leaving Rullens to oversee the unpacking, Varel bade the Wardens and the soldiers guarding the captain to follow. He led them up the ramp to the small building next to the entrance to the keep, where he himself had been imprisoned before being taken to the mine. It was unoccupied, so it was dark and cold inside, and smelled musty from being shut up for so long.

Petrus looked around and nodded approval of the austere surroundings. "Yes, this will do."

Varel was fairly certain potential Grey Warden recruits should not be housed in the dungeon, but then the man had been one of the main accomplices to the crime of slavery and would have been hanged for sure. Leaning his sword against the wall, he took out the heavy ring of keys he carried and unlocked the door. The soldiers untied the unlucky captain's hands and propelled him into the cell before being dismissed back to unloading duty.

Rullens had kept the Vigil running efficiently in Varel's absence, so it did not take long for the torches inside the windowless room to be lit, and a roster made up of those soldiers still healing from wounds to keep watch. Cold as the dungeon was, it was still better than the howling wind and snow now flying vertically outside. Since he was carrying his sword, Varel had only one hand free to struggle with opening and closing the door to the dungeon.

Visibility was getting so bad the captain had soldiers stringing guide ropes along the most commonly used paths, and lanterns had been lit on the walls despite the early hour, since torches would be extinguished in a heartbeat. The merchants had packed up their wares and stalls some weeks ago, knowing such weather would keep the customers well away. Losing the stall rents had been one of the many reasons why Varel was so desperate for funds.

"We should get inside while we can still see!" Varel had to shout at the Wardens to be heard over the rising wind.

The passage to the inner keep was only a few steps away, but they had to fight against the wind for every inch.

"Ugh," Fiona said once they were inside. She threw back her hood and brushed off the snow that had been driven right into the fabric of her cloak and robes. "I won't miss winter one little bit."

Petrus said nothing, having put up a more stoic front, but his face was wind-chapped and reddened from the cold.

"It occurs to me that the storm will confine off-duty soldiers to the barracks, which would make this an ideal time to conduct those lessons on combating darkspawn," Varel said, and made haste to add, "Whenever it is convenient for you, of course."

The elf nodded. "After a meal and a long soak in hot water, I will be ready. Right now there's a tub in the bathhouse that's calling my name, so I'll talk to you later."

Petrus watched Fiona leave, then gave Varel a piercing look. "I need to speak to you in private, Seneschal. When might you have time?"

Varel blinked at the blunt question, but he took thought and said, "After supper, ser. I have to speak to some of the senior staff about the supplies we brought, the armsmaster about starting Fiona's lessons, and discuss what happened and what we found with Captain Rullens -"

The Grey Warden held up a hand. "There is no need to give a full accounting of yourself. Not to me. After supper will do fine. In the meantime, I believe I will follow Fiona's lead and make use of your bathhouse as well." He shook his head, lips quirking as he turned away. "All these southern luxuries are going to spoil me."

Wondering at the kind of life that would consider a simple bath a luxury, Varel went off to put his sword away and visited the bathhouse himself. Once he was clean, he went off to arrange a meal for himself, as well as meetings with the rest of the staff, but was forestalled when Rullens, the armsmaster, and the housekeeper gathered in his office, followed by servants carrying trays of food. Instead of eating with the rest in the dining hall, he found himself the host of an impromptu working dinner. Well, at least this way he could eat and tell them all at once without repeating himself later.

Rullens and Sandis knew what Varel had been planning, of course, and they listened with interest as he gave his report. Clara, on the other hand, had had no inkling other than allowing Varel to take Jacob and arranging food for the soldiers going to the city, and she looked quite indignant at the news that slavers had been active in Amaranthine. She was pleased to hear her boatfolk cousins had been involved and had given them substantial help in stopping the slavers once and for all.

"Good on 'em," the housekeeper said in a firm tone. "But ye did make sure they'll be safe? T' bann don't like no one meddlin' in her business."

"Of course. Not that the bann would hold herself back from meddling in turn," Varel said, and told the others of the sheriff's obstruction.

He was gratified by the identical scowls of indignation on their faces; they had grasped at once what the bann had been trying to do.

"Did she really think you'd be so stupid as to let this slip past you?" Rullens said, his lips curled with contempt.

The armsmaster agreed. "The sheriff might have tried to bully Garevel, because he's still inexperienced, but you? No."

"Waste of everyone's time," Clara said, flicking her fingers out to dismiss the sheriff's foolish gesture.

The captain frowned. "Did he finally bring you that writ? Because I didn't see anyone other than that Grey Warden conscript."

"Yes, finally, near the end of the day," Varel said, making a face in remembered irritation. "It was a mess, because we had our own wagons all packed and ready to go, which blocked their prisoner transports. If our people had not been watching over the whole process like hawks, the prisoners might have tried to take advantage of the tangle to escape."

"And without Cauthrien's dogs to help you track them down if they did. I'll have to commend Garevel on a job well done when I see him later." Rullens drummed his fingers on the table. "Think the bann will try to use her thugs to harrass our people over this?"

"No, not really, but we should all be careful if we're in the city." Varel turned to Clara. "The rest of the staff should take care, too, not just the soldiers, so please pass on the warning. We are at our most vulnerable at this time, without our liege lady in residence."

"We're not _helpless_ ," Sandis said, her words coming out in a belligerent growl that boded ill for anyone trying to mess her soldiers about.

"No, but we can't afford a brawl, either."

They all agreed with that, though with varying degrees of grudging acceptance on Rullens's and Sandis's parts.

Clara, of course, had no time to spare for such nonsense. "I'll tell everyone ta be careful when they're visitin' or shoppin' in t' city, not that anyone's gonna go far in t' middle of a storm. But nuff talkin' - t' food's gettin' cold." The rest of them chuckled and obeyed, taking the covers off the platters.

It was a relief to finally eat something other than bread, salted pork, and cheese; Clara must have been immensely pleased Varel had been able to supply everything she wanted, because there was quite a spread: deep bowls of hot seafood pottage made with fresh mussels and clams, loaves with bits of dried pears and honey baked into them, and a generous plate piled high with slices of mutton in gravy. It was obvious the housekeeper wanted them all to have clear heads for this meeting, because a large pot of tea had been provided, but no ale. Regardless, the food was perfect for a cold day like this; with the wind howling loudly enough to be heard through the thick stone walls, Varel did not envy the sentries stuck outside.

Rullens seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he swallowed a bite of bread and said, "I've had to change the sentries to quarter watches, not that you can see much more than an armlength in a storm like this. Don't want anyone to catch cold or get frostbite. And it's a good thing you bought so many barrels of lamp oil; we're going to need it before long for all the lanterns we have to light."

"It's already as dark as a dragon's armpit out there, though it's not more than an hour past noon," the armsmaster said. "I had to put the soldiers on rotation so that they could all use the salle for drill."

"It's a happy accident for us that Fiona can use that time after they're done in the salle for those lessons," Rullens said.

Sandis nodded. "Aye, I spoke to her. Oh, and she told me we should all outfit ourselves with full-face helmets so they won't get their faces spattered with darkspawn blood. I've got my assistants rooting through every nook and cranny of the armory looking for some, but we might not have enough for all of 'em."

Varel made a note on a wax tablet. "Give me a count and I'll see what I can do about acquiring more, and some spares, too. The sooner the better; they will need time to acclimate themselves to wearing them."

The armsmaster hesitated. "The ones we find won't match the armor they're wearing right now."

Having mismatched armor was nothing new; only the wealthiest of nobles could afford to outfit his troops in identical sets. The Vigil was not yet in the position to do the same. "It can't be helped," Varel said with some regret, as soldiers wearing the same armor made for a striking sight.

"Just thought I'd warn you, in case you wanted to impress the new arlessa with our not-so-gleaming cohorts." Sandis's lips twitched.

"We should make every effort - but only if it's within our means. Simply because we lucked onto some money does not mean we should go overboard. It has to last us until the Warden-Commander arrives." Varel hoped the others understood that they still needed to scrimp and save, if not quite so desperately.

Clara raised her brows. "Dunno that _luck_ had anythin' ta do with it."

Varel made a self-deprecating gesture when he saw the agreement on the others' faces. "Regardless, luck was a factor in our success."

Sandis turned the conversation back to the original topic. "Most of 'em won't like those sorts of helmets; they obscure much of their vision. I prefer being able to see, myself."

Varel was not unsympathetic; he used a helmet with full face protection, himself, but it had taken him time to get used to it at first. "Unless they want to get darkspawn blood spattered on their faces and maybe getting into their mouths, they'll have to deal with it."

Both Rullens and the armsmaster winced, and Clara screwed her face up in disgust.

"Ugh," Sandis said. "Right, I'll tell 'em. That ought to motivate 'em to be careful, but I'll thank you not to say things like that when we're eating."

"Sorry," Varel said, making a small sitting-down bow to all of them. "Well, that was my report; did anything of note occur here?"

Rullens shook his head. "It's all been routine up until this storm, and it's not as if it's the first we've ever been through. You got all of the excitement."

The housekeeper, who had stayed mostly silent while purely military matters were being discussed, spoke up. "Now that we've got t' money ta fix up t' Vigil all right and proper, we should reopen t' throne room, and we still gotta get rooms prepared for when t' new arlessa comes."

Varel raised his brows. "But she won't arrive for months yet. Surely it's not necessary to do that so soon." The Warden-Commander would not arrive until summer, and they were still in the middle of winter. Somehow it felt less fraught when he did not refer to the new arlessa by name in his own mind.

"T' sooner we get it ready, t' happier I'll be. If she shows up all of a sudden, we'll be prepared."

Varel could not argue with that. "Well, we would have to provide the best in the castle, so she should have either the late arl's rooms or his wife's."

Clara wrinkled her nose and gave him a dubious look. "Ye sure ye want ta put a Cousland in t'old arl's rooms?"

Rullens gave Varel a wry smile. "She's got a point there."

"Er." Varel thought about it. "Why don't we go and look at them both? Perhaps if we change out the furnishings..." He glanced at the other two. "If we're done here, of course."

The armsmaster shook her head and rose. "Nothing more for now. I'll get on that inventory of full-face helmets and get back to you on how many more we need."

"And I should go check on the sentries and make sure none of them have lost their way in the storm and fallen off the walls," Rullens said, doing the same. "We should all of us - er, excepting you, Clara - sit in on one of Fiona's lessons and learn about the darkspawn, too."

Varel nodded. "I planned to, yes," he said, while Clara snorted at the thought of being included in any sort of soldiers' training.

Clara gathered up the empty plates, cups and teapot and put them on the stack of trays with efficient speed, and followed Varel out as he held the door open for her. The housekeeper passed her burden on to a servant going about his own business, freeing her to go to the living quarters, where they first started with the arl's chambers.

One look at the arl's rooms was enough for Varel to realize it would be impossible to move most of the furniture. Most were large, heavy pieces that would no longer fit through the door, having been assembled from pieces brought inside. The tapestries, drapes, hangings and curtains had been taken away to protect the expensive fabrics from moths, and with nothing to soften the bare stone walls and edges, it all contributed to an oppressive atmosphere that he doubted would please the Warden-Commander. Considering the recent history between the Howes and the Couslands, she just might set it all on fire, and who could blame her? He exchanged a glance with the housekeeper, who shook her head. Without saying a word, they exited the outer chamber. Varel locked the door again, then they proceeded to the arlessa's chambers.

There was a better possibility of the arlessa's rooms being suitable; the style of the furniture left inside was more delicate, to suit the late arlessa's more feminine tastes, and the place seemed airier as a result.

"They're only a little smaller than the arl's rooms, I think," Varel said as they looked around.

Clara ran a finger along the mantelpiece above the fireplace and gave the dust on it a look of disapproval. "I think so, too. I'll get people in here ta air and clean t' place up prop'ly."

"Surely that's not yet necessary."

The housekeeper shook her head. "Better they get in t' habit of cleanin' these rooms again now."

Varel deferred to her, as he usually did in these domestic matters, and led the way to the throne room. "We should air out the arl's rooms, too, and keep them ready for important guests."

Clara twitched her brows at him. "Are ye expectin' one ta come along?"

"No, but I think it's likely that not all of them will stay in the barracks like Ser Cauthrien. It is not inconceivable that the Crown or the Warden-Commander herself might send someone to take charge of the Vigil in her absence, especially once the Orlesian Wardens arrive."

The housekeeper did not look happy at the thought of Orlesians again taking up residence in the Vigil, but kept her peace. They had no choice in the matter. "I hope they send a sensible sort."

The throne room, which had been closed not long after the Blight ended because there was no liege lord to hold court, would have to be cleaned and aired out, too. He unlocked the door and they made a cursory inspection of the room, which was dark, since the firepit was not lit, and the snowstorm outside obscured the light that should have fallen through the high windows. 

"Those old bear banners will have to be taken down, and new ones bearing the Grey Warden colors and griffon made," Varel said. More expenses, and for mere fripperies, he thought with a sigh, but it was necessary to give all honor to the order, which was especially important after all the harm the late arl and Teyrn Loghain had done to its most recent members.

"Aye, wouldn't be appropriate ta have those old things hangin' up there."

Clara looked about in some disgruntlement of her own, as the size of the hall meant a monumental effort would have to be staged to clean it. She was not a woman to do things by halves, so that meant getting up into the rafters and clearing away the decades-long accumulations of soot stains from the wood and the grime from the windows.

Varel closed the door and locked it again. "Perhaps you're right about preparing early for the Warden-Commander's arrival." It was going to take time to set the rooms to rights.

"Aren't I always?" The housekeeper scoffed, then gave the closed door a glum look. "I have ta get back ta work."

There was no need for Varel to guess what was on her mind. "As do I," he said, and they gave each other looks of commiserating sympathy before they went their separate ways.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. He had to sit down and write that blasted letter.

Varel locked himself into his office and first wrote the report Cauthrien had asked for, and was soothed by the numbers as he consulted the careful records he and Garevel had made. Every copper bit was accounted for; the queen's treasurer would have nothing to complain - or be suspicious - about. Then he realized he would have to make a second copy for his new arlessa, which meant he also had to explain the situation to her, and he had _not_ intended to so muddy the waters with this first letter introducing himself.

In the end he decided to make an identical copy of what he had written for the queen, as he feared what the Warden-Commander would do if she found discrepancies should the two formidable ladies happen to compare notes. The silverite mine would not have a deep enough shaft to hide him. The queen might even have shared the reports he had sent her earlier with the Grey Warden.

Then Varel proceeded to agonize over this, the first official letter he would send to his new arlessa. He had to be deferential without being obsequious, straightforward but not so blunt as to be rude. All this care he was taking reminded him of letters he had written to Bann Esmerelle, except the bann was a known quantity - the Warden-Commander was not. He wrote a first draft down on a piece of scrap parchment, stared at it, then sighed and scraped the flattery-laden words away. Professional, Fray had suggested, but he was too accustomed to stroking the late arl's ego in order to get what he wanted. Yet another habit he had to break. How many more would ambush him?

Five painful drafts later, he finally had an acceptable missive. It was not perfect, but it was the best he could do. His introduction and expanded report on the slavers were as bald and factual as he could make it, as was his request for appropriate seals. This would be his first official communication with the woman, and it was imperative he make a good first impression.

Before his nerve failed him, he made a clean copy and signed it, then rolled the two pieces of parchment into a message tube. He hesitated for a moment over whether or not he had the right to use the late arlessa's seal. But since it was not a personal message from him, but one he was sending on behalf of the Vigil, he dripped hot wax onto the case and pressed the signet ring into it.

There, it was done, though it could not be taken to Denerim yet while the storm still raged outside. Resisting the urge to crack the message tube open again and rewrite everything, second-guessing himself into a dither, Varel left it on his desk and unlocked the door. Several hours had passed while he wrestled with words in order to pin them to parchment, and his inner sense of time and his stomach told him it must be time for supper.

Rullens was a few paces away when Varel stepped outside, clearly on his way to remind him it was time to eat. "You look wrung."

"I just spent the afternoon composing an extremely important letter," Varel said as he fell into step beside the captain. At the other man's inquiring look, he added, "To the Warden-Commander."

Understanding dawned in the captain's eyes. "Ah. No wonder you look like a herd of horses trampled you."

Varel directed a dry look at Rullens. "Do you flatter everyone like that? All the ladies must swoon."

The captain grinned. "Makes it hard to walk, when they insist on throwing themselves at me."

"Are you sure they're not doing that to avoid looking at your face?" Varel said in a deadpan-level voice.

"Ouch!" Rullens pressed a theatrical hand to his chest. "Your wit's sharp enough to draw blood, Varel! Save it for the darkspawn."

Varel smiled at the other man. "How can I resist, when you hand me such opportunities practically gift-wrapped?"

Rullens shot him a mock-glower. "It's a good thing we're going down to supper, then, so that both of us can keep our mouths busy."


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel is given the secret of the Joining.

After supper, while lingering over tankards of ale, Varel felt a tinge of apprehension that was far outweighed by a possibly unhealthy dose of curiosity when Petrus exchanged a knowing look with Fiona, then caught Varel's eye. He had the strangest feeling the Grey Warden had come to some sort of long-debated decision, which the man was about to reveal.

Varel drained the last of his ale, then rose from the bench and waited for Petrus to reach his side. "Will my office suffice?"

The Grey Warden gave him an imperious nod. Varel began to lead the man to his office, but paused when he saw that Fiona was still sitting down. "Is Fiona not participating in this discussion?"

"This is not, any longer, any of her business, though I do value her advice." The statement was as cryptic as other remarks the Warden had made.

Once they were inside Varel's office, Petrus declined an offer of wine. "Secure the door, please. I do not want anyone barging in here while we are having this particular conversation, which must be held in the strictest confidence."

Varel raised his brows at this, but did as he was asked. "Of course, ser." He gestured at the table by the fireplace, where they could sit without the formality his desk implied. Petrus shook his head, so Varel lit the oil lamps and stirred up the banked fire, then took a seat, so that he would not loom over the shorter man.

The Grey Warden paced the length of Varel's office twice before he spoke. "You may recall me mentioning I had to make certain preparations, when we put my conscript in the dungeon."

"Yes, ser." Varel had been very curious about them. He had no idea, really, what the Grey Wardens did to induct members into the order, now that he thought about it. It had never occurred to him to do so. Petrus's demeanor suggested it was very serious, and entailed something more than just taking an oath of loyalty.

Petrus paced from one end of the room to the other in silence. "I apologize if I seem to be stalling," he said. "This is not a secret that a Grey Warden could easily disclose to an outsider."

"Why are you telling me this in the first place, ser, if it's such an important secret?"

"There has not ever been a situation where only one Grey Warden has been assigned to an entire country, not since the very beginnings of the order, centuries ago. These talking darkspawn, and one in particular, are very, very dangerous. I am sure Warden Elethea - Warden-Commander Elethea - is a formidable warrior, but she is still just one woman, and the darkspawn are many. It is not inconceivable for her to fall in battle, and then there would only be the king left, and he has important duties of his own."

"That makes sense," Varel said, though he grimaced at the thought of their new arlessa dying in battle. The arling needed stability, and having two rulers die in such quick succession would hardly ensure that.

"In other long-established Grey Warden enclaves, there are many Wardens who fill most of the important administrative positions, but if a Blight threatens, it is not inconceivable they might all have to leave to fight. Besides, there are few warriors, used to constant battle, who would willingly work behind a desk. So there is always one non-Warden who knows the secret of the Joining, as a contingency." Petrus paused in his pacing and eyed Varel as if he were a horse of dubious pedigree. "Though it is true that such people are already familiar with Grey Warden lore and ways, and have been for most of their lives."

"The Joining?" Varel said. From the emphasis Petrus had placed on the word, it really was more than just a ceremony of oathtaking.

"That is what the ritual is called," the Grey Warden said. He turned and looked Varel full in the face. "It is a more literal name than you may suspect."

Varel kept his gaze steady on the other man. "I understand why you would feel it necessary to reveal this secret, whatever it is, to someone, for all those reasons you enumerated, but why are you telling this to _me_ , ser?"

"I am telling _you_ because, from all I have observed, you are a very honorable man," Petrus said, giving Varel a very intent look. "You have gone out of your way to be fair to all parties in this matter with the slavers, when you were in an excellent position to profit from it. And I have seen that you command great respect, both here and in the city, from boatmen to bankers."

That had never occurred to Varel, and the Warden's bald statement surprised him. He had not really noticed any of that. Rumors of his flogging and his subsequent fate had to have circulated for months, but people had not really looked at or treated him differently. And that in itself was telling, was it not? No one had sought to avoid him, or acted as if they were ashamed of him.

It also reminded him of what Lowan had said, the day he had freed Varel from the mine, and he realized he would have to tell the Grey Warden of the punishment the arl had dealt him, and why. Petrus might feel terribly betrayed if he did not do so before he divulged the secret of the Joining.

Petrus was just about to open his mouth to speak when Varel held up his hand. "Ser, before you tell me anything, you should know just how I ended up in this position."

The Grey Warden's brow wrinkled in bafflement. "I do not see how this could possibly be relevant to our discussion."

Varel clasped his hands together on the table to keep himself from fidgeting, because this was not an easy thing for him to speak of. "I may not be as trustworthy as you believe."

"Oh? Why bring this up now?"

"I would rather tell you this now, from my own lips, rather than wait for some garbled tale to come to your ears." Varel was surprised it had not happened before now. Or perhaps it had, and Petrus was testing him.

Looking intrigued, the Grey Warden gestured for him to go on. Resisting the urge to get up and pace, too, Varel took a fortifying breath, dropped his gaze, and said, "I do not know how it is done in the Anderfels, but in Ferelden, a freeman owns his or her own land, but if there are no heirs, the ownership of that land goes to the closest noble. Arl Howe needed the freehold owned by one particular family, and sent his thugs to kill them. I warned them of his intentions, sheltered them as best I could, then sent them away. The arl discovered my involvement, and -" his voice went flat, remembering the humiliation of his punishment "- he had me flogged in front of the entire population of the Vigil."

Varel looked up at the Grey Warden, but there was no discernible expression on the other man's scarred face at this revelation. "That incident with the freeholders was only the latest in a long string of defiant acts over the years. I objected openly to his orders when I was his seneschal, and after he demoted me, I worked against him in secret. Many would call my disloyalty treason." _Perhaps you might, too?_

Petrus's face was not full of the censure Varel had expected. "You have just proved by your admission that you can be trusted with our secrets," he said, neatly evading the unspoken question. "Finding a man of such integrity here after all the sordid tales of treachery I had heard was... surprising. I had been given to understand that the late arl surrounded himself with those of like mind. I doubt he treated you kindly after that, so how did you survive?" 

"My friends here at the Vigil saved me when I could have easily died of infection and fever," Varel said, though he could not really remember that painful interlude of time. He counted himself fortunate in that regard. "After I recovered, I was sent to the silverite mine, and did not even know of the arl's treachery until after he had died."

The Grey Warden scrutinized him. "You look well, for a man forced to labor in a mine after recovering from such a punishment. And I doubt you were allowed much time to heal. How did you come here from the mine?"

"Lowan, the man who had been left in charge, had orders from the queen to gather his troops to defend Denerim while the other armies march to Redcliffe, and he freed me. Ser Cauthrien, who had also been sent to raise the levies, reappointed me as seneschal as a temporary measure, though I suspect her decision was influenced more by the lack of experienced candidates than any perceived competence on my part."

"From what I have seen, her trust was not misplaced."

Varel opened his mouth, then shut it, lest he be accused of false modesty. He _did_ have the fortress running efficiently now, better than it ever had under Arl Howe; no one would starve this winter, and they could afford to pay everyone. The lack of experienced soldiers still worried him, but they were training the recruits as best they could.

The Grey Warden's expression did not show anything as overt as amusement, but his eyes crinkled. "Did you think I asked you all those questions because I make a habit of annoying my host while I am enjoying his hospitality in a land far from my own?"

"I did not mind, ser," Varel made haste to lie, wincing at this evidence his irritation had not been as masked as he had thought.

Petrus snorted. "You are polite to say so, but my questions would have tried even the most patient Chantry sister. I regret that, but I had to be sure."

Varel had to acknowledge the wisdom of that, now that he knew the reason the Grey Warden had asked so many probing questions of him. Not because Petrus was obnoxious, or because Varel had been seneschal for the late arl, but because Petrus wanted to entrust someone with the secret of the Joining, whatever that was. He suppressed a sigh, because while Petrus was a foreigner and lacked knowledge of Fereldan politics, the new Warden-Commander was no tyro, and he could look forward to more hard questions and suspicion.

The moment of levity, as ever for the Grey Warden, passed quickly. "Let us return to the subject we were discussing. Whatever you may have heard or believed about the order, Grey Wardens exist to kill darkspawn and end Blights - _by any means necessary_. Honor and fairness and all those other virtues have nothing to do with our duty, though that is not to say we do not admire them in others. Those who have never encountered the monsters would call our tactics contemptible, and many would be horrified at the sacrifices we must make." His eye fell on Varel as he said that last, as if he thought Varel might agree with those people.

"We can... forget, sometimes, that non-Wardens do not feel the same urgency when it comes to darkspawn, at least those who have had no contact with the creatures for so long they even thought they were myths. Tactics that work well against our ancient enemy do not work as well with others. Our vision tends to grow narrow, which may help keep us alive in the Deep Roads, but does nothing for our relations with people. Which is what brings me to you. The Grey Wardens need people like you, who know how to deal with problems outside of our focus, especially when we are not entirely self-sufficient and must rely on tithes."

Petrus paused and waved at the room, the gesture encompassing the castle. "Though that may have changed, at least for this particular enclave."

"You honor me with your trust." Varel felt very humbled.

Petrus turned a cynical look upon him. "You may change your opinion, because you are about to be burdened by one of our greatest - and possibly ugliest - secrets."

Varel frowned down at his clasped hands as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "If you tell me this secret, will you not upset the Warden-Commander? She may not want me to know."

"Who better? You are already known to the Crown, since they reappointed you as seneschal, you are respected as a fair and honorable man, you understand the local politics, you know the nobles, and you take your responsibilities seriously. I have seen this with my own eyes."

Varel was a little taken aback by the quiet vehemence he heard in Petrus's level voice. A less stoic man would be shouting. "The Warden-Commander may not agree with you," he said, finally revealing this fear to Petrus.

Petrus hesitated. "The First Warden does not interfere with the autonomy of the Warden-Commanders; partly this is pragmatism, due to the immense distances involved, and partly because of his own... political concerns." His expression and tone betrayed nothing, but Varel sensed Petrus disapproved of the latter. It was time and energy taken away from the darkspawn war.

"So I can do little but offer her advice," the Grey Warden said. "I certainly cannot command! But she will, I think, accept my recommendation that you be retained in your current position. Someone will have to administer affairs here while she must personally take to the field, at least until there are more Grey Wardens - a process that cannot be hurried - and you are the best choice for that. She may be young, but she is sensible and practical."

"She would have to be, to have accomplished all she has." Despite his apprehension, Varel would admire her even if she had not had an indirect hand in saving his life.

"Indeed, I am glad she survived. Others may doubt her abilities, but your experience will help temper her youth."

It was true that would reassure the older, more conservative nobles, though in Varel's experience, the young disliked needing someone else to bolster their authority. In any case, there were not too many of those still living, for Fereldan nobles were first and foremost military commanders and warriors who fought on the front lines - otherwise they could not command respect from the people who looked to them - and the Blight had surely decimated their ranks. "It would take a brave man to speak his doubts to her face."

Petrus's eyes glinted with humor, though his face retained its usual stoic demeanor. "Yes. But let us return to the original topic."

Varel gave the other man a respectful nod. "The Joining."

The Grey Warden took a breath, much as Varel had before relating a difficult incident, and said, "The ritual itself is very simple. A Grey Warden, usually the most senior in the order, not in age, speaks a few words, then the recruit drinks from a chalice or cup."

Feeling his brow furrow, Varel said in some disbelief, "That is all?" He felt almost let down, after having his expectations raised so high with all this secrecy.

One of Petrus's brows arched high. "You did not ask what the recruit will drink."

"I, er, no, I suppose I expected wine or something similar." It was an unusual custom, but done by those who entered elite groups, such as Maric's Shield, or a soldier attaining knighthood, usually as a prelude to a more boisterous celebration.

"Alas, nothing so mundane or pleasant. They must drink darkspawn blood."

Varel felt his face twitch into a disgusted expression before he could control it. Ingesting darkspawn blood on purpose! The thought was revolting, and he forced himself to move on to more serious considerations rather than dwelling on it. "Wait, I thought the darkspawn corruption killed, and those that it did not slay outright died long, lingering deaths." Horrible deaths, the few records he had found implied, so terrible that granting a quick death was a mercy.

"We have ways of treating the mixture first, with the help of mages," the Grey Warden said. "A drop of archdemon blood, added to lyrium and the blood of lesser darkspawn. It carries the same corruption spread by the darkspawn, in concentrated form, and it can kill just the same." He grimaced. "More quickly."

"You... you mean this ritual could _kill_ a potential recruit?" Varel was appalled. "Then what you said about the captain's fate..." His mind sped on to practical matters, such as how he was to explain his body, if the man failed to survive. Surely the Joining did not make the corpse disappear. There was a chance that could happen with every Joining, such as the Warden-Commander would have to conduct if she hoped to rebuild the order in Ferelden.

"Yes, the hangman would kill him for certain, but so could the Joining. Whether he lives or dies, he will be a Grey Warden." Sorrow flickered across the Grey Warden's face. "This is why there are never many of us, for we only choose our recruits from among those who are strong in body and sure in their own minds, not just skilled at arms, be they human, elf, dwarf. We would take even qunari, if we could get them."

"How many survive this ritual?" Varel dared to ask.

"Too few." The trace of emotion that suffused the Grey Warden's voice did not show on his face. "I think you can see why we must keep this a secret."

Still stunned by this revelation, Varel could only nod. Who in their right mind would join the Grey Wardens, knowing it could be a death sentence? And drinking darkspawn blood! His skin crawled at the thought, and his mind shied away in revulsion. He found his voice and said, "Why is it even necessary? Surely skill in arms and a willingness to fight darkspawn is enough?"

"No, for they would succumb to the darkspawn taint, sooner or later. The Joining prevents this. It also allows us to sense darkspawn. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true: _they_ can sense _us_ , as well."

"It sounds like a two-edged sword, ser," Varel said.

"You have no idea."

Petrus did not look like he would enlighten Varel any time soon, and by the other man's grim expression, Varel did not think he wanted to know. What he _did_ know was horror enough. Surely drinking darkspawn blood could not be healthy for anyone, even if they did survive.

The Grey Warden had been watching Varel's face, and correctly interpreted the thoughts behind them. "Yes, there are side effects to the Joining." From his intent stare, he was debating whether or not he should reveal them to Varel. Suddenly, Petrus's lips stretched in a remarkably nasty smile. "Let us just say that if he survives, he may wish he had chosen the hangman."

"Are you certain he won't run away the first chance he gets? Assuming he lives."

"I am an expert tracker. Besides, how far would he get, with no money, no weapons, no horse? In winter?" Petrus said, not knowing he was echoing Varel's earlier thoughts.

With that worry out of the way, and deciding one ugly secret was enough for today, Varel said, "It is a long journey back to Weisshaupt Fortress. Or... were you planning on hunting down darkspawn to collect blood?"

"Oh, no need to travel all that way. We brought the materials which we - and the Warden-Commander - will need for the ritual with us. Just as well, really, with the darkspawn proving so elusive. Even if we did not bring our own, there are enclaves in the Free Marches and Orlais that would have the supplies."

Varel thought of that cart that had held barrels of something that was not wine. Petrus saw the dawning surmise on his face and nodded. "I will show you how to mix the concoction. We will need a goblet, as well, which need not be fancy, but should be made of silver."

Resolving to move those barrels somewhere safer and more secure - _much_ more secure - at the first opportunity, Varel nodded. "When?"

"Tomorrow will do. Spending the night in a cell will be good for him."

"Have you thought about where to conduct the Joining?"

This time it was the Grey Warden who was a bit taken aback. "Er, no, I had not given that any thought."

"Surely the dignity of this occasion means we should not perform it in the dungeon? Where would it have been conducted in a Grey Warden enclave?"

"The main hall, if it is a large group, though not all enclaves are large enough to have a hall. Sometimes in the Warden-Commander's office if there are only a few. Grey Wardens do not stand much on ceremony or rank."

"Perhaps my office, then?" was Varel's suggestion. He had thought of the throne room, but it had not been cleaned or aired yet, and he suspected the oppressive atmosphere of being in that cavernous space would not be conducive to this ceremony. The sea captain was no untutored Chasind barbarian, to be overwhelmed by such things, and it would be a waste of fuel to light the firepits just for this occasion.

Petrus glanced around the tidy room in question, as if seeing it for the first time. "Yes, this will do."

Something bothered Varel, and he decided to dare another question. "One thing, Petrus, puzzles me."

"Yes?"

"The last archdemon to die was centuries ago. Even if you only use one drop per Joining, how could you have managed to preserve enough of its blood through the years?"

Petrus gave him a wintry smile. "I thought you would be perceptive enough to catch that. Yes, we had to have mages enchant regular darkspawn blood to have the same potency after the supply ran out. Fortunately for all Thedas, archdemons have risen centuries apart, so this problem was foreseen. It became the tradition for the recruiter to take the recruit to hunt darkspawn in order to retrieve blood for the ritual."

"Your order must have close ties to the Circle of Magi." Did that mean they also had ties to the Chantry? Varel had not heard that they did, but the Grey Wardens were a secretive order - for good reason, as he had just found.

"We have never told them what we use it for, though I suspect the more astute First Enchanters knew. Despite how useful their power could be if turned against the darkspawn, the Chantry limits our recruitment efforts in the towers." Petrus's facial scars were drawn tight against his cheeks as he scowled.

Varel raised his brows, surprised at the frustration he heard in the other man's voice, for Petrus was a very pious man. For him speak against the Chantry despite that meant he felt very strongly about that policy.

Returning to the practicalities, Varel said, "When exactly would you like to do this? Dawn?"

"Hm, he would be off balance if we roust him out of the dungeon so early. That pile of hay would not be very comfortable for a man used to a bed on a ship."

"Hammock," Varel found himself saying.

Petrus raised a brow at him. "I beg your pardon?"

A little embarrassed by the correction he had blurted out, Varel explained. "A hammock is a net suspended between two hooks that seamen use as beds. It sways with the motion of the ship, so the sleeper will not be pitched onto the floor in rough seas, and can be rolled up and stored, leaving more space for other things. As you saw with the Tevinter ship, quarters are very cramped."

The Grey Warden made a face and raised a hand. "I would rather not think about the inevitable sea journey I must soon undertake. Bed or hammock, I doubt he will get a good night's rest." He went to the arrow slit, but was stymied by the shutter that had been drawn across it. They could both hear the wind still howling, though with much less force now. "I was hoping for a look at the stars, but I suppose that is impossible with the snowstorm still raging. I can sense it must be late, so I shall bid you good night."

"Good night, ser."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel witnesses the Joining.

The next morning, curiosity, tinged with a hint of apprehension, spurred Varel to be up before dawn. After putting on his armor and cloak, he went down and looked into the cavernous kitchen, but the fires had only just been lit by yawning scullions, so he went outside to check what damage the storm might have caused. It took him a little effort to open the door, and when he managed to do so, he saw why: snow had drifted up in large piles, despite the shelter of the gateway. At least no more was falling, though the heavy clouds threatened more to come.

The soldiers and servants were going to have to shovel paths through the high drifts, but for now, it looked quite peaceful and beautiful out there, for snow had softened the lines of the buildings, gateways, and the roofs of the guardhouses, covering the neglect that marred their appearance. He made a note to have them repaired, now that they finally had the means to do so.

Later, of course, the picturesque scene would be ruined, that pure white blanket turning into a sodden, slippery mess, discolored with mud, dirt, and worse as soldiers, servants, and dogs trampled through it. Snow-sprinkled paths had already been trodden along the guide ropes, as sentries came in and off duty.

He took a deep breath of the cold air, feeling invigorated as it tingled in his nostrils and lungs, and went to look in on the prisoner.

The bored, sleepy-looking guard jumped up from her chair when Varel entered. "Morning, ser."

"Good morning. Any problems?" Varel said, glancing at the cell. The former sea captain was huddled on a bed of hay in a corner furthest from the nearest torch, opening bloodshot eyes in a glare before pointedly looking away.

The soldier, one of the new recruits who had accompanied them on the raid, saluted and shook her head. "No, ser."

"Good. When your relief arrives, secure the prisoner and bring him up to my office. Do you know where it is?"

Though she looked puzzled by Varel's request, the soldier said, "Not really, ser, but my relief, Evan, does."

"If I'm not there, make sure you both stay and guard him until I return."

When he went back into the keep, Varel found Rullens in the dining hall eating breakfast, and took the opportunity to beg a reliable soldier from the captain to deliver the messages to the queen and the Warden-Commander.

Rullens paused in the middle of spooning up some porridge to mull the question over. "We're stretched a little thin right now, with the wounded still healing up. Normally they'd be up for a little courier duty, but not in this cold, and not when we don't know what the storm's done to the road."

Varel served himself a bowl of porridge of his own from the big pot left on the table and sat down next to the captain. "One of the new recruits, then? They will hardly get lost if they stay on the Pilgrim's Path."

"The problem is that I don't trust any of them to stay on the horse. The latest bunch we've got is mostly made up of town and city folk." Rullens shrugged and poured hot tea into his mug, filled another, and pushed it towards Varel. "No help for it, we'd better not keep those formidable ladies waiting. I'll lend you one of the knights again."

"Thank you."

"Leave the message case on your desk, so that they know what they should be delivering."

After he finished his breakfast, Varel went up to his office, where he found Petrus leaning against the wall by the door. People tended to get lost in the Vigil before they familiarized themselves with the sometimes-confusing layout, but the Grey Warden had had no trouble at all. Perhaps navigating the Deep Roads helped. "Good morning, ser. Fiona won't be joining us?"

"She will, later, but we do not require her presence to make the preparations, so we might as well let her be." Petrus's lips twitched. "She has a terrible temper when roused, which is what will happen if we interrupt her beauty sleep."

"I'll take your word for it," Varel said as he went into his office to pick up a goblet he had found the previous evening. He made sure his desk was clear of everything but the message case before gesturing to the Grey Warden to precede him out the door.

He led the Grey Warden down to a room near the main hall, where he had stored the mysterious barrels. He selected a key from the ring he carried and opened the sturdy lock.

Petrus took a torch from the wall in the hallway and lit the one waiting inside. "What an odd little room," he said as he peered in and saw the old statues placed in two of the niches of the tiny space.

Varel took Petrus's torch and put it back in the sconce outside. "The Vigil is full of these strange nooks and crannies. The fortress has grown in fits and starts, and the expansions were not always planned well. I think this used to be a cell for a very pious Chantry brother or sister, after three of the walls were filled in." The three barrels had been stacked up in the third niche, and there was barely enough room for both of them after he closed the door.

"Maker, what a monstrosity!" Petrus said as he examined the goblet Varel handed to him. He pointed at the carving on the stem. "What is this supposed to be? A fat cow?"

"I think it is supposed to be a bear. Those are ears, not horns." Varel made a face as he took the goblet back. "Before Lowan, the previous captain of the guard, returned to the Vigil after being recalled from the garrison at Highever, some of the surviving soldiers and servants who went to Denerim with the arl returned and looted the best of the family's valuables from the trophy room. Apparently none of them thought this was even worth melting down for the silver."

Petrus grunted. "Not exactly the most dignified vessel we could use for the Joining, but it _is_ made of silver."

"Is that important?"

"Yes." Petrus took a small wooden box out of his belt pouch and opened it. Varel raised a brow at the unusual item nestled in the velvet inside: the Warden held what looked like a miniature glass ladle, with notches that had been etched at intervals on the inside of the deep bowl.

"Glass is the only substance we have found that resists the corrosive effect of the darkspawn corruption, though silver is the second most resistant," Petrus said in explanation. "Though the longer darkspawn stay in an area, the more their malign influence spreads. Disgusting fleshy growths begin to appear and spread over every surface, be it stone, metal, or glass. You must treat these dangerous ingredients as if they were deadly poisons, which, in a sense, they are. Take care not to touch any of these with bare hands, and also when washing the goblet and this ladle. The dirty water should also not be thrown just anywhere."

"Will throwing it into a fire do?"

"Yes, and fire will also purify the goblet, but I would take care with splashes." Petrus paused. "If worse comes to worst, and your soldiers are forced to fight the darkspawn, any blood they get on their armor must also be cleansed by fire. And if any should be tainted despite precautions, administer the Joining... and pray."

Varel swallowed. "There is no other cure?"

The other man shook his head. "None in all the centuries our order has existed, save for one instance, and it was not replicable. Believe me, we have looked, and we continue to do so." He seemed about to say more, but stopped himself. "Well, let me show what proportions you will need to mix."

Petrus pulled on a pair of gloves, then used a dagger to lever off the lid of the topmost barrel, which was marked with an 'A', revealing a black, viscous liquid. Varel jerked his head back at the smell, which was both like and unlike the iron tang of human or animal blood. It seemed to fill the tiny room in an instant. "It's... still in a liquid form." He had expected vials, a powder or something of the sort.

"This archdemon blood has been magically treated so that it will never congeal, no matter how long it has been in the barrel. Recall that years, decades, have passed between Blights. A single drop is sufficient." Using the glass ladle, Petrus allowed a dark bead run along the rim and fall into the goblet.

Varel helped him reseal the cask, then move it so that they could access the two on the bottom. "As I said, fresh darkspawn blood is traditionally gathered by the recruit, but since there was quite an abundance in Denerim, we gathered some up for the sake of convenience." Petrus scooped some up and showed Varel the notch in the ladle before adding it to the drop of archdemon ichor.

Varel's eyes widened when he saw the vast fortune in lyrium in the third barrel; contained in glass vials, no two alike, they had been packed in wool to protect the fragile contents. "That's the most lyrium I've ever seen in one place." Master Henley did not have a third of what the barrel contained.

Petrus put a finger to his lips. "I would keep your voice down if you want it to remain that way."

There was no chance anyone could overhear them in this particular storage room, which was set in such an out-of-the-way corner, but Varel took the point. "Where in the world did you manage to get so much?" Lyrium was hideously expensive.

"From the dwarves, of course. Our order has always enjoyed close ties with them. When everyone else forgot the depredations of the darkspawn, they remembered." The Grey Warden broke the seal on one of the vials and uncapped the stopper, then poured in a measure into the ladle, and from there to the goblet.

"I thought the Chantry closely monitored the lyrium trade," Varel said as Petrus used the ladle to mix the unappetizing mess together.

The Grey Warden snorted. "What the Chantry does not know cannot hurt it."

Again Varel raised his brows. "You are such a pious man, ser, that I would have thought -"

Petrus closed the lid on the barrel of lyrium, took his gloves off, and squeezed past Varel to open the door. "Unlike most of my countrymen, I have learned to separate the Chantry from devotion to Andraste and the Maker. It is an organization like any other, as fallible as the men and women that make up its ranks."

"There are many who cannot separate the two." Varel handed the goblet back to the other man so that he could lock the door again.

"One has only to see how the Chantry and the Grey Wardens treat its heroes to realize that. We are proud of Garahel, celebrate the mage Neriah's sacrifice, which made it possible for Corin to strike the killing blow that slew Zazikel, while the Chantry refers to the Canticle of Shartan as heresy. We certainly do not try to rewrite history to suit prejudices or politics."

The other man's vehemence was surprising. "That must have been difficult to reconcile with your faith."

Petrus's chuckle held a hint of warm affection; the man was not as grim as Varel had thought, even if that was his usual demeanor. "There were plenty of Grey Wardens of other backgrounds and races to remind me of different viewpoints. I fear it took some years for them to hammer such radical ideas sufficiently into my skull, but then we can be a stubborn bunch."

"Enough to out-stubborn even you?" Petrus did not seem a man easily swayed.

"I was outnumbered. And I suppose we have to be that stubborn, else we would lay down in despair at the enormity of our task. Let us go and fetch Fiona."

Varel glanced over at the goblet, which contained only a little blood, resembling the sticky dregs of wine. "Is that going to be enough?"

"One sip is enough." The other man's smile grew edged with black humor. "Enough for a lifetime."

When Petrus knocked on Fiona's door, it took a moment for her to answer them. "Good morning," she said when she came out, stifling a yawn, though she looked too well groomed to have just gotten out of bed. She sobered quickly at seeing the goblet in Petrus's hands, and shot Varel a sharp look. "Ah. Is it that time?"

Petrus nodded. "Indeed it is. Come along."

"Right, let me just get my staff."

The soldier who had been guarding the captain was standing outside Varel's office, and looked relieved to see him. "Evan's inside with the prisoner, ser." She gave the goblet in Petrus's hands a curious look.

"Thank you." Varel glanced at the Grey Wardens, but neither of them offered any hints. "Stay out here until I dismiss you. It should not take long, and then you may go get breakfast."

Inside, they found the captain sitting at the table with his hands tied behind his back, with Evan watching over him, wary enough to keep his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Ser!"

Varel nodded at the soldier. "Thank you, Evan. Please stand guard outside and wait until I dismiss you. It should not take long, I think."

Though he looked mystified, Evan saluted and obeyed. When Varel made to follow, Petrus held up a hand and stopped him. "You need to know what to expect, Seneschal, and the ritual words. It is a simple ceremony and not hard to learn."

"If you are certain, ser." Varel wondered if going to fetch his sword would insult them; he just now noticed both Petrus and Fiona were armed.

"Release him," Petrus said.

The former captain tensed when Varel took out his dagger, but Varel only gestured for the man to stand up, since all he intended to do was cut the ropes binding the man's wrists behind his back. Fiona shifted her weight a little; Petrus used one hand to hold the goblet, the other resting on the hilt of his sword, as-if casual. It was clear they were prepared for trouble. 

But the man only rubbed his wrists, his eyes darting all around the room as he calculated the odds. By the slump of his shoulders, he could see that they were not in his favor. Petrus watched the thoughts flicker in the former captain's eyes with grim amusement.

"I suppose I don't have much choice, do I?" the man said, his King's Tongue flavored with a strange accent.

Petrus's voice was stern when he said, "You do, in fact, have a choice: submit to either the Joining or the hangman."

The man eyed the goblet in Petrus's hand with equal parts puzzlement and apprehension. "You told me about the Joining, but not what it entailed. What... what do I have to do?"

"It is very simple, but first I must say a few words, which have been said since the first." Petrus cleared his throat. "Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us in the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you."

Extending the goblet towards the former captain, Petrus said, "From this moment forth, Hadrian, you are a Grey Warden."

Hadrian took the goblet, then wrinkled his nose and jerked his head back at the smell. " _Kaffas!_ This is blood! I have to _drink_ this to become a Grey Warden?"

"Yes." The Grey Warden's tone left no doubt as to what the former captain's fate would be if he refused.

The man hesitated, swallowing with either nervousness or revulsion or both, then raised the goblet to his lips in one swift motion and sipped. He gagged on the taste while Varel rescued the goblet from his limp grasp. Not that he cared about what happened to the ugly thing, but he did not want what was left of the dangerous contents spilled on the floor of his office.

Hadrian's eyes rolled back so far in his head only the whites showed, then he fainted. Petrus managed to catch him before he fell over backwards, and lowered him more gently to the floor.

Petrus knelt and felt the man's throat. "He lives," he said, and blew out a relieved breath.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Varel said. He had not expected this.

"That's the usual reaction, if they don't die immediately," Fiona said. She sounded dispassionate, but she, too, bent and checked the new Grey Warden.

As ambivalent as he felt about the Grey Wardens conscripting a criminal, Varel was glad the man survived. "What happens now?"

Petrus rose. "Now we wait for him to wake up, so perhaps we should put him somewhere else so that he is not in your way."

"Should someone be watching him?" Varel said, as there was no delicate way to ask the question.

"Mm, that should not be necessary." Petrus looked down at the unconscious man, then back up at Varel. "People have tried to run from the order before, but once they have taken the Joining, they - we - are forever marked."

Varel went to the door and opened it; the two soldiers waiting outside turned to face him. "Please take this man to one of the guest chambers."

"What happened, ser?" Evan said as he pulled Hadrian's left arm over his shoulders. The other soldier took the other arm; the two of them managed to haul the former captain upright, hanging between them like a limp rag.

"Something he drank disagreed with him," Varel said. It was not a lie, though it was also not entirely the truth.

The soldiers glanced at each other, then shrugged and took him away.

"He may not need to be guarded anymore, but someone should watch over him," Fiona said. "He will be confused and disoriented."

Petrus raised a hand. "No need to trouble yourself, Fiona - I will take that duty."

The elf frowned. "If you're trying to protect my virtue, don't bother - I don't have any. I lost it years ago."

"Nevertheless, no man wishes to look weak before a woman."

Fiona snorted derision, but accepted that. "Fine. I'm off to break my fast." Varel opened the door for her, but she turned back with a sly smile. "But _I_ think you just want to gawk at the handsome man."

"Fiona!" Petrus glared, but she slipped out the door with a chuckle.

Petrus glowered after her, then turned to Varel. "Please have someone send up a large meal, because he will be ravenous when he wakes. A new Grey Warden must eat a great deal of food, and will for some time until his body adjusts."

Varel frowned. "Adjusts?"

"You can think of the Joining as a ritual that builds an immunity to darkspawn corruption," Petrus said. "But there are consequences to ingesting this poisonous substance. A new Warden must eat a great deal, sometimes we can be plagued by terrible dreams - which are especially frequent and intense during a Blight - and while being able to sense darkspawn is useful, it is not a pleasant experience."

No wonder Grey Wardens had a reputation for grimness, if this was the price they paid to be able to combat darkspawn effectively. "Which is why someone should be there when he wakes up. I see. Well, I will have someone send up a tray."

"Good. If you need me, I will be with him. Ah, I am not yet familiar with this castle, so please show me where they put him."

"Of course." Varel let Petrus out, then began to lead him to the living quarters.

Petrus jerked his thumb at the wall. "I saw the market out there, but it does not look like it has been open for a while."

"It's closed during the winter. It is difficult to transport merchandise in this season, though we take care to keep the Pilgrim's Path clear at all times."

The other man looked surprised. "Where do they go? How do they support themselves in the winter?"

"Somewhere warmer, presumably. Most prefer to travel abroad before winter weather closes the roads, after the harvests are in and the fairs have ended. Besides, people tend to stay home and not to travel too far at this time. If they do, they go to the city." Varel glanced at the other man. "Do you need something?"

"I kept Hadrian's weapons, so he will be armed, but he has no armor. I thought of purchasing a set before we left the city, but I was not certain he would survive the Joining. Besides, the best kind must be made to fit." Petrus lowered his voice. "We always need more Grey Wardens, but we must turn away those too unsure or weak-willed, even if they are strong in body. We try and make the best guess we can, but... we have been wrong before."

Varel was not sure he wanted their prisoner access to weapons, but Hadrian was no longer their prisoner - he was a Grey Warden now. "We might have something in the armory that will suit, though we have no smith to make adjustments."

Petrus grunted. "I am no smith, but I have much experience repairing my own armor while out in the field. I do not think he is suited to the weight of the sort of armor you, for example, wear."

"Wearing this sort of armor on a ship would be a death sentence if you fell overboard."

"More than that, it would restrict his speed and mobility. You did not see it, but he fought us quite well in that tiny little cabin." The Grey Warden looked thoughtful. "That ability to fight in cramped quarters will serve him well in the Deep Roads."

"What are they like? I have only ever heard of them."

"They are passageways that extend for miles beneath the surface of Thedas, but built on a grand scale. Like the fanciest Chantry you have ever seen, going on forever, with no end in sight. They are no mere mining tunnels!" Petrus shook his head. "You would think that such a short folk would not need to build structures that can accommodate even dragons, but they do. It is a shame most people, even the dwarves, are not able to see such splendor, even if most of them have fallen into ruin. But the darkspawn lairs that infest the depths are not so easily accessible, and there are dangers other than darkspawn. Cave-ins, deepstalkers, undead, and even more uncanny creatures. The Veil, I am told, is thin in many parts of the Roads."

If that fate was what the new Grey Warden had to look forward to, Varel did not envy him. The Grey Wardens might not have been joking when they said Hadrian may regret not choosing the hangman.

"And horses - I will need to purchase one for him," Petrus was saying, oblivious to Varel's thoughts. "Not that your beasts are not fine animals, but, er..."

"They're getting old, I know," Varel said. "Arl Howe took the best mounts with him to Denerim, of course, and we never got them back. I am not sure where you can purchase a good horse in this season, though you could probably take your pick of sway-backed nags. The horse fairs are held in late spring and autumn, which are months away. I can make inquiries, but the prices will likely be very high. You can certainly borrow one of ours in the meantime, but, er, are you certain he even knows how to ride?" In his experience, seamen did not.

The question took Petrus aback, as if he had never considered it. "I do not know. Everyone in my tribe knows how to ride, even the smallest child, and so do the Grey Wardens. The distances are simply too great."

"Here in Ferelden, only those prosperous enough to maintain mounts - usually nobles - know how to ride."

"Hm, in any case, it is a question I will have to put to him when he wakes up."

Varel wondered how the Warden could be so certain the man would not run off the moment he got into the saddle, but Hadrian was now officially under Petrus's authority, and therefore no longer Varel's business.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel attends to necessary administrative tasks, because despite knowing one of the Grey Wardens' greatest secrets, life goes on.

Varel began to think they had gotten away with their raids on the slavers when they heard nothing further from the bann in the following sennight. The Vigil and her people settled into quiet routine, weathering the cold and the gray, dreary days that followed after the storm. Still, just because the sky threatened to throw more snow at them did not mean they shirked their duties. Their soldiers continued to patrol the North Road and Pilgrim's Path, but the brigands that had plagued the caravans were no longer in evidence. Perhaps they, too, had hunkered down like hibernating bears for the winter, since few traveled willingly in this season, and thus provided few profitable targets.

The Grey Wardens also kept themselves busy: while Petrus devoted most of his time to Hadrian, teaching him how to ride on one of the Vigil's smoothest amblers, an aging chestnut gelding too phlegmatic to care about the fumblings of a novice rider, Fiona spent her time in the salle, teaching the soldiers what she knew about fighting darkspawn. To Varel's mild surprise, she was quite comfortable around the rough men and women, and was not offended at all by their sometimes less-than-refined manners. She was an incongruous sight, with her slight build, robes and staff, an elf surrounded by armored human soldiers taller and stronger than her.

Varel always tried to keep an eye on such gatherings whenever he could, to make sure no one offered the mage insult, but Rullens, Garevel, and the sergeants had hammered in the need to show every courtesy to a guest into the soldiers's heads sufficiently hard enough that Varel had yet to feel any need to intervene.

He was glad, for at the moment he had to devote all of his concentration on this sparring session with Sandis, here in an empty patch of the inner courtyard. She had been busy with the new recruits, and had delegated a training partner for Varel to work with, but now that the latest batch were advanced enough to start drilling in formation fighting outside the walls under the watchful eye of the sergeants, she was giving her full attention to him.

Sandis was using a broadsword and a dagger long enough to qualify as a short sword against him, and she was quick as lightning with them, much faster than he could wield his greatsword. Thanks to his longer reach, he could block her strikes and evade the other blade despite her speed, but so far he had not been able to get off the defensive and attack. Despite the cold, he was sweating with exertion as they circled and feinted and thrust.

Varel decided his concentration on keeping his defenses up might have lulled the armsmaster into complacency, and struck out, catching Sandis's broadsword on the cross-guard and binding it with a twist of his hands. The armsmaster brought up her dagger at once, since both his hands were occupied and he could not parry it, but before she could bring it to bear, he brought his shoulder down and rammed her.

Experienced and quick on her feet, Sandis kept her balance and did not fall, but she staggered back, and that was the opening Varel needed to sweep his sword around, still bound to her own, and lay the edge of it at her throat before she could free it.

"Hah! Good one!" One of her rare smiles lit up the armsmaster's face and transformed her scarred visage into a handsome one. She disentangled her sword from Varel's; one of the quillions had gotten trapped in the ring on the cross-guard of his weapon, which had served its purpose admirably.

Varel raised the visor of his helmet and took in a few deep breaths of the cold air before he spoke. "High praise, coming from you."

Sandis inspected her sword, checking it for damage, before giving him a crooked smile. "And you know I never give out praise unless I think it's deserved. Even though I've worked you hard these past few months, I haven't heard a peep of complaint out of you."

"It would have done me no good," he said, eyeing his own practice blade for nicks, and set the sword point down on the ground. The swords they were using had blunted edges and points, but they had the same weight as their personal weapons, and his hands still tingled from the impacts as he had caught Sandis's sword with his own.

"True enough." The armsmaster looked him up and down and gave him a nod, satisfied by what she saw. "You'll do." Then she directed a warning scowl at him. "But mind you don't forget to attend the daily training sessions. I don't care how busy you are, I'll drag you down here by the ear if I must."

Knowing that was no idle threat, Varel raised his free hand in surrender and said, "Yes, Armsmaster."

Sandis snorted. "Stop trying to sound meek, Varel, it doesn't suit you."

Varel chuckled. "Thank you for your care, Sandis, rough though it is." He did not delude himself into thinking he could have regained his condition without her help.

"I'm as the Maker made me." There was no apology or rue in her tone, only wry acknowledgement of herself. She gave him a comradely slap on the back, then turned to look for her next victim - er, sparring partner. "Oh, and don't forget to bring your crossbow this afternoon for archery practice. The wind's not as fierce today, so it's a good day for it."

He did not sigh. "Yes, Armsmaster."

After he undid the chin strap and string and pulled his helmet and his arming cap off, hanging them at his belt, Varel saw Rullens and Garevel conferring together as they went inside the armory. Curious, he followed after them, since he had to put away the practice blade in there, in any case.

The captain turned at the sound of Varel's footsteps. "Oh, Varel, I was just about to go looking for you. Sandis found a bunch of those full-face helmets Fiona says we'll need, but most of them need repairs." He gestured at a heap of tarnished helmets on a shelf, which at first resembled a macabre pile of severed heads. 

Varel set aside the practice weapon and picked one up, giving it a close inspection, but could not open the visor because the hinge was rusted shut. From the designs, they were very, very old. "So I see."

Rullens nodded. "At least they're simple enough for us to fix. Some polishing, some sand to get the rust off, a bit of oil, and new leather straps to replace the rotten ones, and they should be as good as new." He sighed. "But a resident blacksmith could do it much faster."

Garevel handed Varel a tally stick. "This is how many more we'll need, including spares."

"I will speak to the armorers in the city," Varel said, putting down the helmet and taking the stick. "How is morale? The soldiers are not too unnerved by the stories the Wardens are telling them?"

"The opposite," the captain said. "The Grey Wardens inspired some confidence in them, and so has learning the 'Hero of Ferelden' is going to be their new arlessa, to my surprise."

Varel raised his brows. "Really? They're not upset the one who killed the old arl is going to be their new ruler?"

Garevel gave him a look. " _He's_ the one who got us all into this mess."

Rullens snorted bitter resentment. "Did anyone say anything other than 'good riddance' and breathe out a sigh of relief when they heard the news? Besides his cronies, I mean. Though some of the smarter soldiers are wondering if she'll take her grudge against Arl Howe out on them."

"Do you think she would?" Garevel said, sounding nervous. "The Grey Wardens killed everyone but the servants in the arl of Denerim's estate, I think because they were smart enough to run, and Captain Chase and all his soldiers."

The captain grunted, his expression turning sour at the mention of the name. "They did us a favor, getting rid of Chase."

"They were probably doing their best to kill them, so you can hardly expect the Wardens to walk to their own slaughter without raising a hand in their own defense," Varel said. "They still had that substantial bounty Teyrn Loghain had posted on their heads at the time."

Rullens shook himself. "Well, talking about what the old bastard had coming to him is satisfying but not getting us any forwarder. Garevel, did you come up with replacements for those soldiers who were injured, slipping on the ice?"

"Yes, ser, the herbalist says the injured we sent back from the city to recuperate here are well enough to go back to their regular duties..."

It occurred to Varel, as he watched Rullens with Garevel, that perhaps it was time to take on an assistant of his own, and train him or her up to be his successor, as the previous seneschal had done with Varel. He was not getting any younger, after all. The position was usually passed along to a family member, but since his predecessor had been childless, and so was Varel thus far, he was going to have to find a suitable candidate elsewhere. With this in mind, he nodded to the other two men and went to pay a visit to the master of pages. The children were at their weapons lessons, so the man ought to be free.

Varel had never had much to do with Master Randal, for the man had tutored the Howe children until they were grown and fostered out, and took over the job of teaching the noble pages when his predecessor had retired. Randal's reaction had been decidedly mixed when the noble parents had snatched their progeny back, leaving him out of a job and therefore without protection in a dangerous time. Randal could have been let go then, and knew it, but he had also regained both his position and his purpose when Varel had convinced him to take on the children of the Vigil's staff and soldiers - all of whom were commoners. He had grumbled a bit, then agreed, since beggars could not be choosers.

He knocked on the master's door, and heard Randal tell him to come in.

Randal, a tall, thin man who wore the robes of a scholar like a soldier wore armor, looked up from his books and scrolls in wary surprise at Varel as he entered. He rose from his desk. "Seneschal. What brings you here?"

"I was thinking it's high time I found an assistant of my own," Varel said. "I would like to choose Jacob, but I wanted to confer with you as to the progress he has made in his studies first. That will affect how much time he can spend with me, after all."

The other man gestured to Varel to take a seat as he sat back down. "He's gotten a bit better at his figuring and spelling since he went to the city with you. He seemed set on following in his soldier parents' footsteps, and paid much more attention to the armsmaster's lessons than mine."

Varel chuckled as he took the offered chair. "He saw how well he could profit by them, which is sometimes a better motivator than anything else."

Randal's thin lips twitched. "The carrot and not the stick, eh? Though greed may have spurred him to be more studious, he will still need the usual lessons." He tapped his fingers against his chin. "The rest of the time, instead of being attached to the barracks, doing chores and running errands for the soldiers, he can learn from you."

"Do you think he is suited to the work?"

The master of pages looked surprised at the question. "You are asking for my opinion?"

Varel raised his brows. Did the man feel that insecure? This might explain Randal's wariness whenever he encountered Varel. "Of course I value it, or I would not ask for it."

"Well... well, Jacob's a bit flighty, but that's to be expected of any boy his age. While his goal of becoming a soldier like his parents is laudable, it would be a waste. He has a bright mind, when he cares to use it. If you can get through to him that your work is important and meaningful, he might settle down." Randal's expression turned wry. "Perhaps you'll have better luck teaching him the more tedious aspects than I have. We'll see then which of our methods is more effective."

"I suspect I will need to use both the stick and the carrot." Varel rose. "Thank you for your time."

Randal waved his thanks away. "No need to thank me."

Varel was about to open the door when he turned back. "Master Randal."

"Yes?"

"You do not have to fear for your position here. I am doing everything I can to keep all the current staff employed."

The other man winced. "Oh, dear. Was I that transparent?"

Varel made a noncommital noise.

Randal sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It just seems to me that what the Vigil needs these days is more soldiers, not a tutor."

"I wouldn't say that to someone like Clara," Varel said. "A castle needs more than just soldiers to run properly. For every soldier in the field, I estimate there are at least five civilians at home, perhaps more, who support him."

The master of pages looked dubious. "And what do you think I contribute to that? I am no blacksmith to be able to make and repair armor, nor a farmer, who can feed them."

"You keep their children occupied, and you are educating them as a Revered Mother should, if we had one. They may be barely literate themselves, but they know a chance to improve their children's lives when they see it. They grabbed it with both hands and are encouraging their children to take advantage of it. Besides, we cannot turn away free labor these days."

Randal's agreement seemed grudging. "It has been refreshing, I must admit, not having to deal with the arrogance of noble brats. But they usually come to me already knowing their basic arithmetic and letters. I've had to start from scratch with most of the children you sent me."

Varel knew the other man had some sort of vague link to the nobility; a by-blow, perhaps, sent to the Chantry with a generous purse, and was therefore more than a bit biased. "The children of nobility have the leisure to learn their lessons from the Revered Mother attached to their homes. The children of commoners have chores and work to do, and therefore have no time to attend to classes." And before Randal could say anything unfortunate, he dropped a casual reminder: "Or so it was in my case."

The other man paused, swallowing whatever he was about to say. "Well, I suppose allowances must be made for the differences in upbringing."

"Please do consider them," Varel said, then gave Randal a nod before he turned to leave.

Varel tracked Jacob down in the barracks, where the boy had been set the task of cleaning and oiling a pile of wooden practice weapons in a warm little storage room. Jacob jumped up when he saw Varel. "Ser?"

Motioning for the boy to sit back down, Varel said, "Hello, Jacob. How would you like to be my assistant? If you do a good job, some day you'll be seneschal."

Jacob's eyes widened. "Me, be your assistant? But I thought you had to be a noble to do that."

This conversation was reminiscent of the one Varel had just had with the master of pages. "What? No! Whatever gave you that idea? I'm the seneschal, but I'm a commoner."

"You are? I didn't know that."

Varel was nonplussed. "You thought I was a noble?"

"Yeah. You use all those long words."

To a boy of Jacob's age, perhaps Varel did. "Well, my parents had a farm, and the rest were fishermen or sailors or both."

"Oh." Jacob thought this over, and said, "Will I still learn how to fight?"

"Yes, you'll still have your usual lessons with the armsmaster - and with the master of pages. Your regular routine won't change much, but instead of running errands, you will learn about administration with me."

The boy didn't say anything, but the expression on his face suggested he would find the new subject dead boring. Varel hid a smile at that, because he had thought the same. And while doing the sums, going over the ledgers, and looking up precedents in the dusty old archives could be tedious, learning how to successfully handle people, both nobles and commoners, could be its own reward. Or so Varel thought.

Varel leaned forward in a conspiratorial way and said, "It's not all about sums, you know. Most of the time it's about convincing people to do what you want, even if they are fighting you and each other." A hint of exasperation leaked into his voice as he added, "There are times where you may both want the same thing, but they insist on disagreeing with the minor details. A large part of my duty is dealing with that."

Seeing the blankness on Jacob's face, Varel decided to enumerate benefits the boy would understand. "The seneschal answers only to the liege lord, is in charge in his or her absence, and has authority over everyone in the Vigil, from the captain of the guard down to the lowest scullion, though cultivating good relationships with them makes my job much easier. And because of all of that responsibility, it is one of the best-paid positions in a fortress."

Jacob brightened at that last, as Varel had expected, though the rest had probably gone in one ear and out the other. Then his face fell. "But I want to be a soldier."

Varel gestured at the armor he was wearing. "While not all seneschals are soldiers, the Vigil, being a working fortress, requires one. So being a soldier and being a seneschal is not mutually exclusive."

There was a cough behind Varel, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Maverlies. "Special courier, ser, from Denerim. She's in the stables."

"Thank you. Please tell the cooks to prepare a meal for them." Varel turned back to Jacob. "Take some time to think about it."

Varel went back out into the cold and ducked into the stables, where a groom had just finished leading a tall black horse to a stall. The courier, a slight young woman, wore a tabard in the royal colors and the double mabari on a shield device over her riding leathers. On her shoulder was a badge bearing the running dog emblem of the royal chancellery.

She turned at Varel's approach, took in his appearance, then consulted a slip of parchment. "Seneschal Varel, ser?" she said. When Varel nodded, she shoved the small box and message tube she carried into his hands. "Package from the Crown, ser."

"Thank you," he said as he tested the weight of the package. "There is a hot meal waiting for you in the dining hall." He looked around for a suitable guide and saw that Jacob had followed him. "This boy will take you."

The woman beamed. "Thanks, ser!" she said, and followed Jacob into the keep.

Varel took the package and message tube up to his office, where he had the leisure to inspect them. Ribbons in the royal colors had been tied into intricate knots, culminating in a wax seal medallion that held the box closed. He broke the seal and unwound the ribbons, then opened it.

The small wooden box contained the late arl's livery collar, as well as his signet rings and seals. It seemed someone had found the regalia Arl Howe had taken to Denerim. Since the Crown had attainted Arl Howe, the rings would probably be destroyed, though it was not Varel's place to do so. The Warden-Commander might or might not keep the seals; she might have one made that would reflect the Grey Wardens' new rule. Was this an honest answer, or was sending these things to him meant to be a test?

There was also a letter, sealed not in the red wax he was used to seeing on royal correspondence, but blue, and embossed with the Cousland wreath. He took a steadying breath, braced himself, and broke the wax. There were only a few simple lines, penned, he thought, by the commander herself, as he doubted any scribe employed by the palace had handwriting so execrable.

"To Seneschal Varel of Vigil's Keep, greetings. These were recovered from the arl of Denerim's palace after the battle" - which battle was not specified - "by royal guards acting upon the orders of Queen Anora. She has graciously released them to me for my own use, and which I now place in your safekeeping. Use them as you see fit."

He wondered if Queen Anora had passed on his reports to the commander. What had she made of them? Enough that she trusted him with the seals, and that was what mattered. There were none of the accusations or imprecations he had feared, and now he felt a little foolish for thinking she would waste perfectly good parchment for that. A woman who had accomplished so much and ended the Blight, he thought, would wait until she could say those things to his face.

"I was disturbed to hear from Petrus and Fiona that there was another group of Tevinter slavers that had escaped our notice, though also glad to hear you rid Amaranthine of them. We thought we had eradicated the ones operating in Denerim's alienage, but there was little time to investigate further, though we suspected there might be more elsewhere when we could not find out how they planned to ship their slaves back to Tevinter."

Looking back down at the parchment, he read on: "The Grey Warden from Weisshaupt Fortress said only good things of you when he came to Denerim with Fiona to attend the royal betrothal ceremony. Based on your actions and what they said of you, I will trust you to make binding agreements and contracts in my name, but the regular reports you have been sending to the queen should now be sent to me."

Varel raised his brows. That was a great deal of trust she was placing in a man she had never met, though it did ease some of his worries. No wonder Petrus had asked him so many probing questions and observed him so closely; the Grey Warden had taken the opportunity to report to the commander when he returned to Denerim with Fiona to observe the ceremony. He would have to show this letter to Rullens, for it was proof that their meddling had paid off in more than just spoils - it had earned them a certain amount of goodwill from their new arlessa, as he had hoped.

And... that was all. It was stamped with the Cousland wreath, and signed merely _Elethea Cousland, Warden-Commander of Ferelden._ He turned the parchment over, but there was nothing on the back. He added up the days in his head, and thought that, yes, it was just enough time for the queen and Warden-Commander to read his report and confer, then arrange for the transport of the regalia.

He checked the tube and found another, smaller piece of parchment stamped with the royal seal, which only had a couple of terse lines confirming he no longer needed to send reports to the Crown, and should send them directly to the Warden-Commander. That was wise on the queen's part, as no Fereldan noble would brook such interference. Then again, if the commander was staying at the palace, Queen Anora could just get the news from her.

Unlike previous messages sent by the queen, it had also been signed by King Alistair. He was not sure what to make of that, for he knew little of the new king save for what he had heard in rumors. Was it meant as official endorsement for his fellow Grey Warden, or a sign he intended to have a direct hand in the country's governance, unlike his predecessor? If they all survived, the political situation in the next few years could prove interesting to watch.

Varel closed the box and put it in his desk, then tucked the letters into his belt pouch, knowing the rest of the staff would want to hear the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness of this chapter; I procrastinated much of this past week, and then my glasses broke.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel helps the Grey Wardens find their latest member, who has chosen the worst possible time to run away.

**Drakonis, 9:31 Dragon**

It was only later that Varel wondered if the Warden-Commander intended to test him by allowing him to make binding agreements in her name. Did it also mean the Vigil's assets were no longer frozen, and dare he inquire? The spoils from the slaver raid should tide them over until the commander's arrival, barring some horrendous - and expensive - emergency, and he did not want her to suspect there was some sort of embezzlement scheme. He had an unnerving feeling his new arlessa was just waiting for him to misstep, and he tried to shake off the sudden paranoia. Old, bad habits. Elethea Cousland was _not_ Arl Rendon Howe, and he could _not_ allow his old reflexes to ambush him. He had to give her the benefit of the doubt, just as she was.

So he decided she meant what she said, and made arrangements for purchasing the full-face helmets the soldiers would need should they ever have to fight darkspawn. He did not go himself, nor did he send any soldiers, but a sharp-witted, burly laundress who wanted to check on her relatives in the city. She did not go without escort; her young cousin, a big strapping lad, went with her. Because ordinary citizens going to an armorsmith would look strange, they would pass the message on to a boatman, who would invariably be one of Ker's folk. They would not, Varel thought with satisfaction, excite much comment. None at all, in fact. They should pass beneath the bann's notice, and she would leave them in peace. He was probably being overly cautious, but he felt not enough time had passed for the bann to have forgotten his meddling, and they had troubles enough without her active enmity.

Occupied as he was now with Jacob's initial training, Varel did not pay much attention to the Grey Wardens, something he came to regret early one morning, some weeks after their raid on the slavers, when the stablemaster came into the keep to find him. The man hardly ever left his domain, so Varel grew alert at once.

"Seneschal!" the stablemaster called. Varel waited for the man, who smelled strongly of horse and hay, to trot up to him. "One of t' horses is missin', that one what we lent t' the Grey Warden ta learn how ta ride. None of t' grooms say they got him ready, but one boy said he saw t' Warden put t' tack on himself."

"Is anything else missing?"

The other man nodded as he brushed snow off his shoulders, for another storm, one of the last of the winter and all the fiercer for that, was descending on them. "Aye, saddlebags, 'n tack."

Varel thought for a moment. "Warden Petrus may have taken him out with an early patrol." While Fiona always stayed behind, the other Grey Wardens had resumed accompanying the patrols as soon as Hadrian had learned to stay long enough on a horse.

"But t' thing is, t' patrols're still out, so there ain't none goin' out taday - and wouldn't be, anyways, 'cause of t' storm. That small evil nag of t' Warden's still here, too, or I wouldn't've come in ta say anythin'." Since the stablemaster was the one who assigned the mounts, there was no point in doubting him.

"For the love of Andraste, don't call the Warden's horse a nag in his hearing - he treasures the blasted beast." Varel frowned, because Petrus always accompanied Hadrian on patrols. If Hadrian had gone out alone, no one would question him or think it strange, for the Grey Wardens had leave to come and go as they wished.

Hiding his growing unease, Varel turned back to the stablemaster. "Thank you for bringing this to me, but please keep it to yourself for the moment."

The other man shot him an offended look before leaving. "I ain't no blabber, me."

Varel went to find the Grey Wardens at once, and found Petrus frowning at the door to Hadrian's quarters, one hand raised as if poised to knock. He gave Varel a curt nod. "Seneschal."

"If you are looking for Hadrian, ser, he's gone," Varel said, not seeing any reason to beat about the bush. "The stablemaster just informed me his horse is gone, along with saddlebags and tack. I would have to check the kitchens, but I suspect there is also food missing, as well."

The cooks would not find anything amiss, since Hadrian made frequent raids on the pantry in order to feed his immense appetite. When he cared to exert himself, the man had considerable charm, which had disarmed them. Varel scowled, for Hadrian had taken advantage of all of their trust.

Petrus cursed in his own tongue, but though Varel did not understand it, he recognized the sentiment. The Warden walked a few steps to his own quarters. "Find Fiona, please, and tell her I am going after him."

Varel opened his mouth, though he knew not what to say, but the Grey Warden had already closed the door. Fiona's quarters were right next to Petrus's, and he went to knock on her door. There was no answer, and for a moment Varel wondered if she, too, had run off, until he realized someone would surely have told him, for the mage was much more noticeable than Hadrian. Still, he was relieved when he found her in the dining hall, where she was eating breakfast, and told her the unpleasant news.

Fiona's face grew pinched with annoyance. "I thought he seemed unusually docile while he was training with Petrus. Now I know it's because he needed to learn how to ride, and know the roads."

When Fiona continued to eat, Varel said, "You do not plan to follow after?"

"I'm no expert tracker like Petrus; I would only slow him down." She did not look particularly worried, just irritated, so she must really be that confident in Petrus's skills.

Varel glanced at the soldiers coming in from their watches, brushing snow from their cloaks and armor. "But has he ever tried to track someone or something in a snowstorm?"

Fiona opened her mouth, then shut it, her annoyance changing to consternation. "I... I don't know. There are plenty of dust storms, but I don't think it has ever snowed in the Anderfels, save for the top of the tallest of mountains." She pushed away her bowl and stood. "I had better get my gear together, in case Petrus needs me."

"Has this happened before?"

"What, a conscript running away? Yes, though the order takes care not to advertise the fact." Her lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "It would ruin their reputation as grim slayers of darkspawn. Not every conscript is able to take their sudden change in status as Grey Wardens with equanimity. Sadly, they never thought it through, and they're always surprised that they could be found so easily." She cast him an enigmatic look out of the side of her eyes. "And not because of any particular skill on the pursuers' part in tracking."

Varel gave her a blank look, before recalling that Wardens could sense darkspawn, and vice versa. Did that mean Wardens could sense each other, too? That seemed to be what Fiona was implying. He shook off the disturbing thought and excused himself, for he needed to speak to the housekeeper about arranging for rations.

He met Petrus on his way out of the kitchens, who was now burdened with a lance, his bow, and arrows in addition to his saddle bags. "Ah, Seneschal, I was about to get some food."

"I am arranging that, ser - or rather, the housekeeper is," Varel said as he walked with him to the entrance. "You'll also need a dog to help you track him." He opened the door for the other man.

"I can track him perfectly well myself - oh." Petrus stared out at the falling snow and vented another curse.

"Indeed," Fiona said as she approached them. She was now dressed in her traveling robes and carrying her staff, with a pack slung on her shoulder. "Where do you think he has gone? Back to Amaranthine? He could hide in the city until the storms are over, and take ship back to Tevinter."

Petrus shook his head. "Would he dare show his face where people who are carrying a mighty grudge might find him? I think not."

"Surely they're still in prison?" Fiona said, huddling into her cloak as they walked towards the stables.

"But his victims are now free."

"He might go to Highever," Varel said. "There's another port there, and it would be difficult to ask permission of the new teyrn to search the place. Nor would the people there be very helpful."

"Why?"

Varel grimaced. "If you may recall, Arl Howe ordered the murders of the Couslands, and his soldiers treated the survivors and townsfolk abominably before Lowan took charge."

"Ah, yes, I remember. They are not likely to feel cooperative." Petrus rubbed at a scar on his face. "Then I will make sure it will not come to that. Besides, I do not think he even knows the way."

"All he has to do is follow the North Road and go west," Varel said. "He is not known there; he could sell his horse and use the money to find passage."

"Yes, there is that. Then just in case, I think, Fiona, you should go to Amaranthine, and I will go to Highever."

"How do you know he won't just hole up in a cave somewhere?" Fiona gestured at the forests below the Vigil, full of snow-covered trees. "There must be plenty of hiding places out there."

"In the middle of winter? No," Petrus said. "Only someone who either has both great knowledge of the land and superb skills in survival, or a large amount of supplies, can hope to survive alone in the wilderness in this season." He went into the stable to retrieve his horse.

The stablemaster looked on with disapproval, for it went against the grain to allow a guest to saddle his own horse. There was little he could do when Petrus insisted on it, and none of the grooms dared go near the evil beast.

"No armor?" Fiona said, one eyebrow lifting in an elegant arch as Petrus led his horse out into the courtyard.

"Speed is of the essence."

"You'll both need guides." Varel beckoned to Maverlies, who had come out to watch all the activity, but then came up blank as to who should help the second group, for the only ones left who knew the area as well as he did were civilians. Well, there was one other: Varel himself.

As he asked Maverlies to find the most skilled soldiers in woodscraft they had, Varel found himself torn between staying behind and going with them. With both Garevel and Rullens out with the patrols, he was the only one with any authority - such as it was - at the Vigil. But he also had an obligation to aid the Grey Wardens, and he was the best guide available, since Maverlies was going with Fiona.

Still, he conferred with Maverlies when she returned, but she only confirmed his suspicions. "Sorry, ser, but there ain't no one else. Just the greenies are left behind, and they're all from outside the arling."

Varel sighed. "I see." There was no help for it, Clara would have to be left in charge. "I will have to go with Petrus. Maverlies, tell Jacob to bring me my longsword, crossbow, and a quiver of bolts, please." It would be impossible to bring his greatsword.

Maverlies stared at him in surprise. "Are you sure, ser? You hate riding."

"I do, but it can't be helped - the Grey Wardens need guides."

Turning back to the Grey Wardens, Varel said, "Ser, we'll need a little time to make preparations." He stopped Petrus before he could swing himself up into the saddle, but kept a healthy distance between himself and that small but malicious horse. "You can't just charge off into a snowstorm without supplies, ser."

"But the trail is getting cold - in a quite literal sense!" The Grey Warden jerked his hand at the snow falling on them.

Varel nodded. "True, the snow will work both for and against us, but he is only one man, and I know the land better than he does, and we are many to his one. We can ask for shelter, but he cannot. Besides, the dogs won't obey you."

Petrus gave him a ferocious glare, but then looked away and grunted grudging agreement. He heaved a sigh that emerged as a feathery plume of mist. "You are right. I have never tried to track in snow, and I am unfamiliar with this country, with all these blasted trees and hills. Let us prepare, then, and set out once we are ready."

Varel took some thought as to the size of their escort; he could hardly allow them to go out with only one other person. "Adding two additional soldiers to each group would be best, I think. Would you agree?" It was also all they could spare.

"Yes, too many and we are slowed down; too few and we would be vulnerable to darkspawn or bandits." Petrus led his horse back into the stables, unwilling to leave the beast to stand in the cold to no purpose. Fiona went with him, no doubt to take advantage of the warmth.

After ordering Maverlies to get the rest of the escort ready, Varel went to see the kennelmaster, who was in the middle of training two pages to look after the dogs. It was warm inside the kennels; another lad tended a fire to keep the place heated, keeping a close eye on it so that it could not grow out of control. Upon seeing Varel, the man dismissed the pages to their duties. "How can I help you, Seneschal?"

"I need two of your best trackers. Scent hounds would be better, I think, than sight hounds."

The request took the kennelmaster aback. "What? What game could you possibly be after in _this_ weather?"

"Only the most dangerous kind," Varel said, and left it at that.

The kennelmaster grunted, rubbing his chin and looking out at the falling snow. "Hmph, fine, keep your secrets. Take Mer, he's a bit long in the tooth - well, most of our dogs are - and a bit slow now, but he's our best. Blackfoot's young and not as experienced, but she'll probably be even better than Mer once she's older. Both are our most steady hounds."

"Very well, please get them ready for us. They'll need to be able to travel in the cold and snow. And we will need food for them, as well."

Varel left the kennelmaster to it and went to the kitchens, where the housekeeper was using a peel to take hot loaves out of an oven. The huge room was filled with the scents of baking bread and meat cooking on spits, and noisy with people working and talking.

"Clara, it turns out we'll need more than I asked for earlier," Varel said, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds of pots clanking and knives chopping.

The housekeeper looked unsurprised, and jerked a flour-covered elbow at a pile of cloth-wrapped packages. "Rations're over there."

There was more than enough for eight people. "How did you know we would need more?" Varel said as he began gathering them in his arms.

Clara just gave him a jaundiced look in response. Varel smiled and said, "I have to go with them, so you're in charge in my absence."

That flustered her as the sudden extra demands for food had not. "What!" she squawked. "No! Ye ain't doin' that ta me again!"

Varel grabbed the rest of the food and retreated as fast as he could. "I won't be gone long, perhaps two or three days at most -"

"Two or three _days_?!" Clara slid the loaves onto a table and advanced, holding the peel in a very menacing way.

"Ah, sorry, can't stop to talk, very busy, Wardens waiting, must prepare!"

The stablemaster had gotten more horses ready, and Maverlies and the other soldiers were putting their gear away into the saddlebags, and fodder for the animals on packhorses. The dogs, wearing wool and leather outfits that would keep them warm, with their paws wrapped in cloth to protect them from ice and rocks, were panting with excitement, being watched by a page. As Varel handed out the rations, Jacob came trotting up with Varel's weapons.

"Are you going out to fight?" Jacob said as he helped Varel mount his horse.

"I hope not," Varel said as he secured the sword at his side, with the crossbow and quiver on the other. "I should be back in a few days, if not sooner. Keep an eye on things while I'm gone, will you?"

The boy's eyes grew wide. "Yes, ser!"

Unable to restrain his impatience any longer, Petrus clapped his heels to his horse's sides; the little horse reared, then leapt out into a swirl of snow with a startling burst of speed. The rest of them surged after the Grey Warden, and soon the Vigil was lost to Varel's vision in a curtain of white.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel guides the Grey Wardens in the forest, and learns they are not the only ones hunting their wayward conscript.

Despite that first impatient gallop, Petrus soon reined in both his impatience and his horse as soon as he had passed the gate that led to the snow-blanketed fields below the Vigil, allowing the rest of them to catch up. The Grey Warden slowed his horse to a walk as he peered down at the ground, the sounds of its hooves changing as it stepped off the cleared path and onto snow.

"Maker, it is hard to find tracks in this weather," Petrus said, blinking the snow out of his eyes, the better to glare at the ground, where there were no obvious tracks. "No doubt that was Hadrian's intention."

"It could be worse, ser - at least we are not trying to conduct a search in a blizzard," Varel said. Of course, he would have done his utmost to keep the Grey Wardens from doing such a daft thing. "There have been tales of people dying a few steps from their own homes because they were caught in a blizzard. Hadrian took a great risk."

"Not so unlike the dust storms in my own homeland, then, though there the dust would flay the flesh from your bones in less than a heartbeat if you are caught in the open."

"Are we done comparing natural weather hazards yet?" Fiona said, pulling the hood further over her face. "The sooner we find Hadrian, the sooner I can get back to a warm fireplace."

Petrus scoffed. "You cannot fool me with your frail Orlesian flower pretense, Fiona. You are tougher than you look!"

"That doesn't change the fact that I hate being out in the wet and cold." The elf looked around, squinting at the slushy mess of trails in the road, where soldiers had done their best to sweep the snow away. "I can't make heads or tails of these tracks."

"Of course not - you are a city dweller." Petrus ignored Fiona's glare as he bent to examine the road. "Hm, he was smart enough to hide his horse's tracks in among the soldiers', but sooner or later we will find where they diverge. This road is the only way out of the Vigil, yes?"

"Yes, ser, unless he can climb down sheer cliffs," Varel said. "There have always been rumors of another entrance somewhere in the deep cellars, but since no one's ever found it, I doubt Hadrian knows where it is."

"We've reached the crossroads, Petrus," Fiona said, pointing at the tall cairn that marked where the Pilgrim's Path, the road to the Vigil, and the North Road all met. "Shall I go on to Amaranthine?"

"Not yet," Petrus said, leaning precariously far out of his saddle as he examined the tracks. "We are not that far behind him, only a few hours - he will not have had time to think of or plan any complicated ruses."

"You think he's planning on outrunning us, then?" Varel said, looking around at the bare branches of the trees that bordered both sides of the North Road. Against the white backdrop of the snow, they looked like black fingers reaching up to the sky. It was a beautiful if stark and austere scene, but it did not encourage anyone to linger around to admire it. At least the trees were tall enough that they would not get slapped in the face with branches, even on horseback.

"Look there!" Petrus pointed at trails in the snow leading to the forest on the northern side of the road. "Who could have left them?"

"Wood gatherers and charcoal burners," Varel said, recognizing the ruts in the immaculate white blanket covering the ground had been left by cart wheels, their once-sharp outlines now softened by new snow. "People have been taking advantage of our arlessa's absence to poach and gather wood outside of designated wood pastures without paying the fees. I've had to let it go, because we have much bigger and more urgent problems to deal with."

"This complicates matters - he could use any number of these trails to disguise his horse's tracks," Petrus said. He stood up in his stirrups and peered through the falling snow. "If there are many -"

"There won't be," Varel said as he took the opportunity to put his helmet on, more for the warmth it would provide than for protection. "Not many people are willing to brave the deep forest - uncanny creatures live there. And no one wants to be caught out in a storm, in any case. Neither should we, so we must hurry."

"Hadrian is more used to navigating the high seas than the wilderness, so he will not dare stray far from the road, especially without the sun to guide him." Petrus looked up at the heavy gray clouds that covered the sky, then pointed at the Pilgrim's Path. "Fiona, you go search that way, and I will go this way."

The elf made an exasperated noise. "But I don't even know what to look for!"

"Maverlies and Morller will recognize the signs." Varel nodded to the two soldiers escorting the mage.

Maverlies knew the land as well as Varel did, and Morller used to be a gamekeeper for Arl Wulff of West Hills. Or so Morller said; there was no way for anyone at the Vigil to confirm that. That was one of the dangers of hiring outsiders; other than looking for obvious prison or punishment brands, it was not possible to tell a criminal from a freeman. All they could do was rely on the armsmaster's strict training regimen to weed out those truly dedicated to their new careers from the ones who were not cut out for the life of a soldier.

Fiona reined in her horse by Petrus. "What do we do if we find something, then?"

Varel took in a deep breath of cold air that was heavy with that sharp tin scent of snow. "I recommend we all return to the Vigil in three days, ser, whether we find anything or not."

Petrus made a noise that could have been disgruntlement, but did not countermand the suggestion. "Then let us hurry and find where these trails will lead us."

After telling them all to wait at the cairn so as not to muddy the tracks, Petrus rode his horse across the fields, looking for signs of Hadrian's passing. The man must have eyes like an eagle, for he soon found evidence that had not been left by animals. He returned and directed Fiona's group to a set of wheel ruts, pockmarked with footprints, some distance away to the north, while Petrus led Varel and Deran, the other soldier escorting the Grey Warden, to a trail leading to the west.

There were signs it had been used often, for trees and brush had been crudely cleared away on either side of the narrow trail, the ground trampled flat. Something, probably a tree branch, had been dragged to soften the outlines, allowing the snow to disguise them further, but the very fact someone had tried to hide them was suspicious in and of itself.

Petrus seemed to think the same thing. "If it is true you are no longer enforcing the rules for gathering wood, no one would bother to hide this trail," he said.

Varel nodded. "It could be poachers, but not in winter. There are few who would trouble to do so." He was grateful when they went single file onto the trail and the trees gave him some shelter from the wind. "Bandits?"

The Warden leaned down and used his lance to push aside some fallen branches. "There would be more of a mess of tracks if there were some about. Bandits, in my experience, do not venture forth alone. Does your dog agree?"

Deran, who was holding the leash of the mabari, lengthened the line and called for Mer's attention; he directed the dog to sniff at the tracks, instead of at any interesting scent that struck the dog's fancy, since scent hounds tended to be easily distracted. The soldier had to brace himself in the stirrups, for Mer strained against the leash so much he was standing on his hind legs. The dog raised his head to bay, but at Varel's sharp command for silence he clapped his jaws shut.

"He recognizes the horse's scent," Varel said as he stared at the dog so as not to miss any cues. He leaned down and gave Mer a scrap taken from Hadrian's washcloth, but the dog just turned around in a confused circle and whined. "Nothing of Hadrian, but he's unlikely to abandon his only means of transport." Did the Tevinter know how to evade the keen noses of their dogs? There were tricks that could throw even experienced dogs off the scent, but had Hadrian had time to set them up?

All of a sudden Petrus swung down from his horse with a muffled exclamation. "He lost his patience here, or his nerve broke, for here are his tracks, plain as day." Varel nudged his horse closer, but was balked when Petrus's mount snaked its head around and bared yellow teeth at him. The Warden, oblivious to his horse's antics, waved to him. "Look, it is as the stablemaster said, Hadrian's horse has a small triangular nick on the left hind foot."

Keeping a wary eye on the other man's horse, Varel said, "Sorry, ser, I can tell wolf tracks from deer, and goat from sheep, but that's the extent of my expertise."

"No matter - they are clear enough to me." Petrus climbed back into the saddle with easy grace, then took out his dagger and shaved a few flakes of bark off a tree, so that the paler wood beneath shone against the dark outer skin. "There, that should tell Fiona where we went."

They followed the trail with more certainty, but the denseness of the trees did not allow them to go very fast. It also meant the tracks were clear enough on the soil and fallen leaves for even Varel to see, where snow had not been able to gather thickly enough to hide them. As their horses's hooves broke through the crust, the rich scents of earth and leaf mold drifted up to Varel's nose.

"He is following the road, as I thought," Petrus said in a low voice. "Do you agree, Seneschal?"

Varel squinted through the snow up at where the sun was just a dim disk of light behind thick gray clouds, but was enough to let him judge direction. "Yes, ser. We should be coming to a clearing soon, a campsite travelers and pilgrims use." He paused, then ventured the question that had been preying on his mind since they had discovered Hadrian had run away. "What do we do when we find him?"

Petrus raised his brows at him as he marked another tree. "You do nothing. This is my responsibility."

That was not really an answer, but from the flat tone Varel sensed the Grey Warden was disinclined to elaborate. What punishments did the order levy on deserters? During war time, an army deserter would be hanged, and in peace time, flogged, the severity of which depended on how many days they were absent. Did the Wardens do the same? From the ease Fiona and Petrus acted with one another, it seemed Wardens did not stand much on either rank or ceremony, but whether that casual attitude extended to discipline was another matter. And Grey Wardens seemed so rare and few in number that it would be a waste to kill them. He was glad it was not his responsibility.

They had, by Varel's reckoning, gone several miles west, paralleling the North Road. Was Hadrian heading for Highever? There were some fishing villages up north, but rough docks and piers would be all they had, nothing like the harbors nor the traffic the City of Amaranthine and Highever boasted. Hadrian used to be a sea captain; surely his first instinct would be to run towards a familiar refuge, and he had charm and wit and the fellowship of other seamen, if not the money, to find himself a berth.

Mer found a pile of discolored snow that excited him very much, where Hadrian must have stopped to relieve himself, and they moved forward more confidently, knowing they were on the right track. They also picked up the pace, for those had been the only footprints Hadrian had left, indicating he was in a hurry.

Varel realized there were hoofbeats making the snow creak behind them, and he turned, one hand going to his sword. To his relief, it was only Fiona and her escort, who had finally caught up to them. 

"It took you long enough," Petrus said as the others cantered up to them. "I thought you might have missed seeing the signs I left."

Fiona glowered at him, then blew out her breath, which formed a white plume in the air before her face, and visibly set aside her irritation. "There were more tracks than expected when we followed that trail, so we had to be sure none of them had been made by Hadrian." 

Petrus grunted, his all-purpose response to news both good and bad. "If you found nothing to the east, then he must be heading towards Highever, as you suggested, Seneschal."

"Yes, ser, or he could be taking the long way around the Feravel Plains and head to the City of Amaranthine from the west." Varel wondered if Hadrian could have taken enough supplies for a journey of that length, for it was several days' travel. The man could ask shelter at farms, but first he would have to find them.

The trail opened up into a small clearing, where one of the tallest trees had fallen, taking several of its fellows with it. Petrus's horse, which had been in the lead, suddenly threw up its head and snorted, and the dogs growled and whined. Varel's horse jittered, and he heard curses behind him when the others also found themselves on restive horses. Whatever scent they had caught, it disturbed all their mounts, and the animals were still uneasy even after the soldiers calmed them enough to stand still.

Petrus soothed his horse with a few whispered words, then slid out of the saddle again; something on the ground had caught his eye. Once his horse was no longer dancing about, Varel saw that there were more tracks, and they intersected with Hadrian's.

It did not take long for Petrus to announce his findings: "These are not human tracks. Darkspawn."

Varel swallowed. It was one thing to hear reports of darkspawn sightings in the safety of the Vigil, and another to suddenly find them nearby. He looked at the tracks, but could not see how Petrus differentiate them from human footprints. "How can you tell?"

When Petrus spoke, he sounded very grim. "The reactions of the horses and dogs - and the fact that no human foot has talons." He swung himself back into the saddle, and urged his horse - and thus the rest of them - to move faster.

Fiona looked worried. "They must have taken advantage of the storm to come up to the surface. How many, do you think?"

"At least a dozen," Petrus said as he straightened up. "The standard size for a raiding party. There may be more groups out there, but too far for me to sense."

"Could they be after Hadrian?" Varel said in a low voice. He was starting to feel their lack of numbers keenly.

Petrus was too stoic to show any worry, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him. "Darkspawn hunt us like we hunt them. I see no other explanation, and there is nothing here that could possibly catch their attention. Unless you know of something?"

Varel shook his head. "We're in the middle of the forest south of the Feravel Plains, so there are no villages or towns nearby. What I don't understand is where they came from - I know of no place that could connect to the Deep Roads around here." The fact that there were darkspawn roaming so close to the farms made his skin crawl, and there were any number of charcoal burners' huts in the forest that were now quite vulnerable.

"They may have dug their way out from old ruins," Petrus said. "I understand Ferelden is positively littered with such places."

"Relics of the Tevinter occupation, yes," Varel said. Such places were considered to be unlucky, haunted, and so everyone avoided them. Such reluctance also meant they were not recorded on most maps. He tried to remember if there was an entrance to the Deep Roads on the maps the bank had provided.

"If they are like Tevinter ruins elsewhere, they were built with defense in mind, which means deep underground chambers. If there is one thing darkspawn know how to do, it is dig, and it would be no great matter for them to break through there." Petrus frowned. "Still, it takes a great deal to drive darkspawn above ground in broad daylight, even if the storm has blocked out the sun."

"Will you scout ahead, Petrus?" Fiona said, raising her staff so that it rested on her stirrup like a banner pole.

"I see little point in doing so, when the trail is so narrow." Petrus checked his weapons. "I do think we should ready ourselves for whatever might happen."

"Bad place for an ambush, ser," Maverlies said as she looked around at the trees crowding in about them.

"We have little choice - we can't lose Hadrian's trail." Varel made sure he could easily draw his longsword, and wished he had thought to bring a shield. His crossbow was useless in this sort of terrain, and so he did not bother to string it. "We'll have to rely on the horses and dogs to give us warning."

Petrus led them onwards, and while the Warden concentrated on taking point, the rest of them watched their flanks and rear. Not long after Petrus had found the darkspawn tracks, they found horse droppings, still steaming in the cold air, which meant they could not be too far behind Hadrian.

Varel watched his horse's ears, which had swiveled forward, and he saw Petrus's mount was doing the same. The dogs strained against their leashes, their own ears perked up. Mer, in particular, was very excited, snuffling and panting as he pawed at the snow, and only repeated commands for silence kept the dog from baying. Blackfoot was more disciplined, but even she was growing hard to control.

"They've picked up Hadrian's scent," Varel said.

"Good, let us find him before the darkspawn do -" Petrus cut himself off at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. "Hadrian!"

But it was not the newest Grey Warden that barged into their midst in a flurry of snow, but his horse, eyes rolling white with fear and its hide lathered with sweat. Petrus tried to catch the reins, but the gelding reared and avoided him, and the maddened horse's plunging and bucking threw the rest of their mounts into confusion and sent the dogs into a frenzy of barking. It was not until Maverlies finally managed to grab the gelding's bridle that they managed to get everyone and the animals settled down.

Petrus dismounted and went to the exhausted beast; the horse had its head down nearly to the ground, and was barely holding itself up on splayed, shaking legs. The Grey Warden murmured soothing words in his own language into its ears, while Morller checked the saddlebags.

"Everythin's still here, ser, food n' clothes n' all," the soldier said. "He musta fell off - ain't surprisin', what with his horse in such a state. Least this old fella ain't hurt." He patted the horse on the neck.

"Likely he did," Petrus said as he vaulted back into the saddle of his own horse. "I am more certain now than ever that he is in trouble - merely falling off would not spook that placid old gelding like that. Seneschal, what all is in this area? Are there any defensible places we can use to make a stand, if we must?"

Varel thought quickly. "As I said, all of this is forest, but there is a ridge about a mile to the northwest of us." He looked to Maverlies for confirmation; she nodded. "It's something we can put our backs to, but not useful for much else."

"Let us hope it will not come to that, then," Petrus said, and urged his mount into a trot, and so perforce the rest of them did, too. The trail was quite obvious now, thanks to the gelding's panicked flight. "But I have learned to prepare for the worst."

"It so often comes to pass, after all," Fiona said in a dark mutter.

"Ser, won't the darkspawn be attracted to you, too?" Varel said, glancing at Fiona and back to Petrus.

There was a plume of white ahead as the Grey Warden blew out his breath. "Yes, they will." He glanced at the dogs loping easily beside them. "And we have lost all hope of any sort of surprise attack."

Varel winced, for it was true; the dogs' barking had been very loud, as they had to be in order for hunters to be able to follow them to the game. They had probably been heard all the way in Denerim.

"They will, perhaps, be confused by another target," Petrus was saying, and again Varel wondered why the Warden did not say 'two more targets', because Fiona was right there. "But we cannot count on that. Keep your distance from them, and do not charge in - I have no wish to see your people succumb to their corruption."

"But that would leave you exposed!" Varel was aghast at hearing this plan. He could just imagine the reaction of the Warden-Commander when he told her he had let Petrus fight on the front lines while he and the others hung back. Wrapping the reins around one arm, he pulled out his crossbow and braced it against the saddle in order to string it, which was difficult to do on a trotting horse.

"Yes, well, in my experience, battle plans often go awry, so -" Petrus jerked his head up, and over the sounds of their horses' hooves on the snow, Varel could hear the clashing of weapons. "That is coming from up ahead!" And with that he clapped his heels to his mount's sides, making the horse squeal in surprise and surge into a gallop, leaving them behind.

Varel cursed and nearly dropped his crossbow as he led the rest after Petrus. No one had told him chasing after Grey Wardens and darkspawn would be part of his regular duties. _I never signed up for this!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to take a week off to recharge my brain. Writer's block is the worst thing that can happen to an author who tries to update every week.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel helps the Grey Wardens fight off darkspawn, but they are outnumbered and stuck in the middle of a snowstorm.

Muttering curses under his breath as he ducked snow-laden, low-hanging branches, Varel dug his heels into his horse's sides in an effort to catch up to Petrus. If the element of surprise had not already been lost before due to the deafening barking of the dogs, it would have been now, as the rest of the soldiers escorting the Grey Wardens crashed through the trees behind him.

The sounds of battle grew clearer, and now that Varel could distinguish the cries, he felt the hair on the back on his neck rise, because there was something unnatural about them. There were no words, just hoarse grunts and howls and snatches of horrible laughter, and that last seemed the worst of all, to hear such a human emotion twisted into something so monstrous.

They had stumbled into yet another clearing, this one much smaller than the campsite near the road, and the fight had knocked what had been neatly piled pieces of wood into disarray all across the trampled ground. There was a charcoal-burner's distinctive cone-shaped home there, where Hadrian must have taken shelter, because there were a few more darkspawn bodies scattered near the doorway and by the pit where the kiln was to be built. Varel saw that arrows stuck out of the turf covering the hut, and could only pray that the original occupant had been driven away or had gone elsewhere this day. Hadrian had his back to the hut and was fighting off a tall darkspawn in ill-fitting mail armor with a sword and dagger, and Petrus had just used his lance to spit a squat darkspawn archer about to shoot Hadrian.

Then Varel had no more time to look around, for his horse went mad, rearing and bucking as it saw and smelled the darkspawn up close, and it was all he could do to stay in the saddle. The other soldiers were having just as much trouble, to judge from the explosive bouts of swearing all around him. The most pungent curses came from Fiona, half directed at Hadrian and half devoted for her mount, for she could not bring her magic to bear with her mount plunging about in a panic.

Deran and Morller, who had been holding the dogs' leashes, suddenly found themselves fully occupied with simply staying in their saddles, and loosened their grips. The dogs were no longer hampered, and they streaked towards the darkspawn on the other side of the clearing like snarling, howling brown comets.

Petrus twisted his lance free of the dead darkspawn and saw the dogs approaching. He waved his free hand at them in a frantic effort to turn them away, but the dogs paid no attention, recognizing the darkspawn as enemies and focusing on them to the exclusion of all else. "No! Call them off!"

Varel shouted the command that would bring the dogs back to their side. Mer and Blackfoot slid sideways in the snow as they stopped their headlong flight towards their foes and whined in protest, but obeyed. The mabari were intelligent enough to catch the ends of the leashes in their mouths to keep them from tangling up in the trees, and trotted back.

"Keep them back, do not allow them to bite the darkspawn, unless you want them to die painful deaths!" Petrus threw his lance like a javelin at another darkspawn that was nocking an arrow to a bow, then extended a hand to Hadrian, who had dispatched his opponent. The wayward Warden grabbed Petrus's hand and pulled himself up behind the saddle.

Hadrian nearly fell off when Petrus wheeled his horse around and galloped back towards Varel's group, the only mount that had managed to keep its wits in the face of the darkspawn. "Seneschal! Lead us to that ridge - there are darkspawn among the trees!"

Varel wasted neither time nor breath in asking the Grey Warden how he knew; he pulled on the reins and turned his frightened horse around. If the darkspawn had them surrounded - if there were more archers - then they needed a place to fort up. "Follow me!"

Their horses did calm down a little, and grew a bit more manageable when they realized they were moving away from the creatures that frightened them so. It was a miracle no one had fallen off, broken their necks, or been thrown from their mounts. An unnerving howl went up behind them as the darkspawn saw them withdrawing, and though it was difficult to hear anything other than the noise of their horses' passage and the barking of the dogs, Varel thought he also discerned the sounds of the darkspawn chasing after them. Their horses could not go very fast in the woods, giving the darkspawn plenty of time to catch up to them. Just how many of the creatures were out there now? A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the weather ran up his spine as he wondered whether he had led them all into a trap.

The ground began to rise and the trees thinned as they approached the ridge; without the shelter of the trees, they were exposed to the full force of the wind. As Varel had feared, the wind had risen, gusting hard, and the snow was no longer peacefully drifting down, but driving sideways at a nearly horizontal angle. It was getting even harder to see than before, and though it had to be no more than noon, it was already growing dark. They were running headlong into a storm at best - a blizzard at worst - and they were caught out in the open and far from shelter. But first they had to defeat the darkspawn, somehow, for they could surely track the Grey Wardens through their shared connection even through darkness and bad weather.

A dark mass loomed up ahead of them through the snow, a ridge of rock sticking out of the earth like a broken tooth. It was too bare of vegetation to interest even goats, and the rest of the area was not fertile enough to support a farm. On the one hand, they could fight without endangering innocent people - but on the other, that meant they were on their own. Varel squinted at the sky, searching for the sun, which was by now only a spot just slightly brighter than the rest of the dark gray clouds. Hauling on the reins, he led the rest to the northeast, where there was a cleft in the stone that could give them some shelter.

Despite the rapidly approaching grunts and growls of the darkspawn, they had to slow down and go single file, for the path was narrow, steep, and crooked, and it was all too easy for a horse to slip and break a leg. He could hear Petrus's horse grunting with every step behind him as it heaved itself upward; it had to be tiring for such a small horse to carry two men on its back, for there had been no time for Hadrian to switch back to his own mount.

The walls rose higher as they moved deeper into the cleft, giving them some shelter from the wind, if not from the snow.

Petrus dismounted and rummaged in his saddlebags. "We have some little time before the darkspawn reach us - I suggest we use it to care for the horses, and eat and drink."

Fiona looked around at their snow-covered accommodations, and sighed. "At least water won't be a problem."

Regardless of rank, they all pitched in to get the horses and dogs taken care of before they could tend to their own needs, which was difficult when the beasts were restless; they could still smell and hear the darkspawn even if they could not see them. Not that it was easy to see anything anymore, with the way the snow was coming down. There was just barely room enough for them all; as it was, their mounts were crammed into the back, nose to tail, which would at least keep them all warm.

"I wish we had had time to gather some wood," Varel said as he finished filling a nose bag with grain and tied it to his horse's head. "A fire would be welcome right about now."

Varel noticed Hadrian shivering; the man must have discarded or lost his cloak somewhere along the way. Since it would be a shame to lose the Grey Warden to sickness after they had expended so much effort to find him, Varel sighed, pulled off his own cloak, and handed it to Hadrian. Northerners like Petrus and Hadrian seemed more susceptible to the cold. Varel had his armor and thick arming doublet beneath to keep him warm, but Hadrian wore only a set of leather armor they had found in the Vigil's armory for him, and a quilted jacket.

The man looked surprised at the gesture. "Thank you," he said, taking the cloak and wrapping it about himself.

Fiona looked Hadrian up and down and crooked an imperious finger at him, while in her other hand, the head of her staff began to glow with light. The soldiers stirred uneasily at this overt sign of magic, but Varel kept them quiet and busy, though, he, too, was reminded of all those Chantry sermons about the dangers of such power - and those who could wield it. "If we have another fight ahead of us, you had better let me take a look at your wounds."

"Do not overtax yourself, Fiona," Petrus said, looking up from where he was checking one of his horse's hooves. "Save your strength."

The elf leaned her glowing staff against the stone wall and dug into her satchel. "Don't worry, Petrus, I'll let bandages and poultices do most of my work for me."

Hadrian, who had not spoken other than expressing his gratitude for Varel's cloak, submitted meekly to her rough care. Despite his success in dispatching several of the darkspawn even though he had been outnumbered, he had not escaped unscathed; his lips were split and swelling, and bruises marked the rest of his face, where his leather cap had not been able to protect him.

Once the animals were checked for injuries and given food, Maverlies passed out the rations for the rest of them, and Morller filled their travel cups with ale from a waterskin. If that ran out, they could indeed melt snow as Fiona had noted, but that had to wait for a more leisurely time, when they could gather fuel. They could also eat snow, but that would just make them lose their warmth even faster.

Petrus looked around as he chewed on a sausage roll, perhaps with an eye towards assessing their defenses. "What is this place?"

Varel shrugged as he peered through the swirling snow, looking for any sign of the darkspawn, before he bit into his own roll. He made a face, for it was hard and cold. "It has no name on any map, but when I was a boy and played here with children from the farms nearby, we called it the Castle, and this part the Throne. I don't know what they call it now."

Finishing his roll, Petrus took out his curiously small bow and began to string it. "It does resemble one. A pity it does not have the comforts of a true castle, such as walls and gates." 

"And hot baths," Fiona muttered. Finished with Hadrian, she had huddled by the dogs, though from her expression it was less for their companionship as for the warmth they provided.

Petrus grunted what could have been agreement. "From the way you and your soldiers ride your horses, and your weapons, you do not fight on horseback, do you, Seneschal?"

"We're no chevaliers, ser," Varel said with a rueful grimace. "We are all strictly foot soldiers."

The Grey Warden nodded, looking thoughtful as he watched the other soldiers unwrap their longbows and bend the staves in order to string them; Varel hoped the snow would not warp the strings. "I thought so. Your horses do not have the look of war steeds. How well do you shoot?"

"Maverlies is our best, and the rest of us are passable." Whether 'passable' would be good enough to keep them alive was about to be put to the test. Varel was grateful now that the armsmaster had insisted on making him practice. He checked the quiver of quarrels hanging at his side, and wondered if they were enough. Once they ran out, it would be down to hand-to-hand combat.

"Then you stay here, where the darkspawn cannot swarm us with their numbers, and I will guard that," Petrus said, pointing down to the opening. Some way below them, it constricted to its narrowest point, just wide enough for a man to pass on horseback, before it broadened enough for them to take shelter. "One man alone can defend that spot, which should be either me or Hadrian. Likely we will have to take turns."

"That sounds like a sound enough plan, ser, though we will have to wait until they get close enough for us to see them." They would have the advantage of the high ground, though visibility was still poor, with the snow still falling. At least the wind had calmed a little, and it was blowing away from them, which should help with their shooting. Perhaps they would be lucky enough to avoid a blizzard. Varel glanced at the mage's glowing staff. "Will they keep attacking when night falls?"

"They will," the Grey Warden said, sounding grim. "The creatures are most at home in darkness, and will not have the trouble we will encounter. Fiona, put out your light until we need it when the sun goes down - I do not want you to overexert yourself."

To Varel's surprise, Fiona did not bristle at the order, but obeyed without demur. Without the light, everything looked much more gray and dark and forbidding.

Instead of resting like everyone else, Petrus walked back and forth in front of the path, scowling fiercely as he stared out at the snowy afternoon. "If I were in the Anderfels, a party of Wardens on good hill ponies could wreak havoc here," he said. "Much though I wish I could do the same here, as cavalry charges go, it lacks a certain impact when it consists of only one person."

Varel was appalled by the idea, but before he could protest, Fiona beat him to it. "Petrus, no! The darkspawn have archers that would turn you into a pincushion!"

"I know, Fiona, I know! If I knew this area better, I would try to lead them away on a merry chase, but more than likely I will get lost and fall off a cliff." Petrus shook himself and tried to smile; it was a ghastly attempt. "I can sense them out there, and you know how irritable that makes me."

The mage snorted. "And reckless. You have a good, simple plan - now follow it."

Petrus grunted, but his lips quirked in a lightning-quick smile at her acerbic tone before he turned his attention back outwards. He straightened and pulled the shield slung on his back around and set it on his arm, then drew his sword. "They are coming - prepare yourselves!"

Fiona caught him by the arm, a look of concentration wrinkling her brow, then the man's sword began to glow with magical flames.

"Thank you, Fiona. Hadrian, I will call for you if I need you." With that, Petrus picked his way back down to the narrow gap and set himself there. Leaning his shield and flame-covered sword against the stone, he pulled out his bow from the case slung from his hip, and nocked an arrow from the quiver hanging from his belt.

"Morller, you're best with the horses, stay with them and keep them and the dogs calm," Varel said. "The rest of you, don't shoot blindly, and make every shot count."

Hadrian, still wrapped up in Varel's cloak, and sporting the bandages Fiona had applied to his bruised face, looked bewildered. "What... what should I do? I don't have a bow."

"You should rest as best you can, seeing as you are to take over defending the gap when Petrus tires," Varel said, keeping his voice even so as not to betray his anger at the man for getting them all into this mess. He doubted the former sea captain had imagined darkspawn would waylay him as he tried to make his escape.

Pulling the strap of his crossbow over his head, Varel stuck his foot into the stirrup and cocked it, then fitted a quarrel into the slot. There was nothing more for them to do now but wait for the darkspawn to show their ugly faces. And survive.

The darkspawn announced themselves with their unnatural howls and screams, and dark blots appeared in the snow below as they came out of the trees and converged at the foot of the ridge. There was a twang beside Varel, and one voice went up in a high-pitched shriek, then one of them fell and went still as Maverlies scored a hit with her bow.

"Excellent shot, Sergeant, but wait for them to enter the path; they won't be able to dodge," Varel said.

Maverlies grinned. "Just like shooting fish in a barrel, ser," she said, then sobered. "But I hope we run out of darkspawn before we run out of arrows."

"I do, too."

The darkspawn swarmed up the path with single-minded determination, not even turning aside to look when arrows and Varel's bolts began cutting them down. As Maverlies had said, it was easy to hit their targets when they were jammed into the narrow space, getting in each other's way more often than not in their haste to reach them, but they had to go for lethal shots; arrows that glanced off their armor or only hurt them was a waste of their precious supply.

Then the creatures returned fire of their own, and were smart enough to aim their arrows high. What looked like a cloud of them rose up, and though some of them went astray because the wind was blowing against them, it seemed to Varel that each one was aimed at him.

"Shields up!" Varel shouted, pressing his face against the cold stone and tucking his head into his shoulders, all he could do to protect himself from the falling projectiles when he had no shield of his own. Beside him, Maverlies snatched up her shield, trying to cover both herself and Fiona, who had come close to watch.

Arrows clattered against the stone and bounced, and and there were grunts from Maverlies and Deran as more drove into their shields. Varel's mouth went dry as he heard them hissing by overhead, remembering all the times when he had been wounded by such. From behind them, there were squeals as a few of the arrows landed in among the horses, and curses as Morller struggled to calm them. The dogs barked, and Varel saw them attempting to herd the horses back into the corner.

Fiona popped up and gestured at the thickest knot of darkspawn being funneled by the path, nearly blinding Varel when a fireball erupted from the mage's hands, leaving a bright streak across his eyes. A heartbeat later, there was a _fwump_ , sudden screams from below, and the wind, changing direction for a moment, blew the choking stench of burning flesh and the peculiar darkspawn stink towards them. The mage sagged down, apparently panting from the exertion of the spell, and accepted Maverlies's aid as the soldier eased her to the ground.

"There," Fiona said as she caught her breath. "I hope that took care of some of their archers."

Varel coughed from the smoke and blinked his watering eyes. "More than just the archers, I would say."

"Good shot, Fiona, but you nearly singed my eyebrows off!" they heard Petrus shout from the gap.

"Everyone's a critic," the mage said with tired asperity.

Despite the fireball, there were still some archers left, for some more arrows - not nearly as many as before - came whistling down upon them. They had to take shelter once more under their shields from them, and now they heard the clashing of weapons as the darkspawn reached the spot Petrus was blocking. When Varel was able to look back up, he saw the glow of Petrus's enchanted sword flashing through the snow.

"Fiona, is there anything you can do to protect us from arrows?" Varel said as he reloaded his crossbow. "Just the horses will do if you can't cover the whole area. They might panic and trample all of us."

The mage was now holding the shield above her head while Maverlies returned to firing at the darkspawn clustered below. It was far easier for them to shoot than for the darkspawn, trapped in the crush of bodies. "We need them to travel back to the Vigil, so I suppose protecting them is a priority."

With a look of fierce concentration upon her face, twin sprays of frost formed from Fiona's raised hands, blowing skyward in a reflection of the snow falling down. Ice began to form above the horses, reaching from one side of the cleft to the other, a handspan thick, then two hands. It seemed at first the mage was going to cover the entire area they had taken shelter in, but she sagged when the new roof had extended halfway, her face drawn with weariness. Hadrian had crept close and picked up the shield the mage had dropped to cast her spell, holding it above them both.

"I'm sorry, I must rest," Fiona said, so drained from the effort her voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well. Hadrian helped lower her to the ground before she collapsed.

Varel stared for a moment in wonder at the thick half dome before wrenching his eyes away, turning his attention back to the business of sniping at the darkspawn. "It is more than enough, ser. Please rest - we can take it from here."

"The weather worked in our favor, for once," Fiona said, her words emerging in a white plume, melting the snow that seemed to vex her so. "Now, if you had asked me to conjure ice in a desert..."

Fiona's fireball had killed or injured enough of the darkspawn for Petrus to dispatch them with ease; the press of bodies in the cleft looked to be lightening, but what was left still vastly outnumbered them.

There was a blistering oath from Maverlies. "I'm running out of arrows, ser."

"See if you can use the darkspawn arrows," Varel said. His own quiver was also emptying at an alarming rate, despite his slower rate of fire.

The sergeant made a disgusted noise, but started searching the ground. Now that no more arrows were bothering the horses, Morller made his cautious way towards them, and gave Maverlies half the arrows in his quiver before he, too, took up a position to shoot.

Varel darted a glance at the darkening sky; the short winter day was drawing to a close, and soon night would fall. Could they last until morning?


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel and the Grey Wardens fall out of the frying pan and into the fire - or at least, from a darkspawn ambush to a blizzard.

There were both good and bad consequences of Fiona's fireball: there were fewer darkspawn, but now that they were no longer crammed into the path so tightly, the survivors had more room to fight, and were now pressing Petrus hard. The sounds of weapons ringing on the Grey Warden's iron-rimmed shield and flaming sword intensified. Varel and the other soldiers did their best to support him from afar.

"Hadrian!" came a breathless shout from the gap.

The former sea captain jerked, pulled off his borrowed cloak and handed Fiona the shield he had been holding over the both of them, then picked his way down the rocky slope as fast as he could to Petrus's position. The pressure of the darkspawn forced Petrus to retreat one step, then another, before Hadrian reached him and helped take some of the brunt of the darkspawn advance. Hadrian's sword and dagger also acquired magical flames, the weapons moving so quickly they left burning trails in the air. Together they were able to keep the creatures from taking more ground, but there was no chance for either of them to rest.

There were much more than the one group Petrus had found the tracks for, and it was a mystery to Varel as to how they had been able to communicate with the others, though it was fortunate for them that their organization went no further. A few flights of enemy arrows flew their way at times, but Fiona's half-dome of ice was still holding above the animals, and Varel's armor and the soldiers' shields were able to turn aside the ones that did manage to reach them. The wind, which had been chilling Varel to his bones, worked in their favor by blowing away most of the arrows. If he had been put in command of the darkspawn, he would have withdrawn out of bow range long before this point once it became clear they could not break through the gap, and just let them starve or die of cold, but apparently the darkspawn were either too stupid or too determined to reach the Grey Wardens.

It was hard to keep holding on to the old fear of these near-mythical monsters, who had been so terrible and numerous they had overrun entire countries in Blights past, when they kept assaulting a position even a child knew could not be taken through brute force. So many had fallen that more than a few darkspawn stumbled and tripped over their dead fellows, and Petrus and Hadrian were fighting over a low wall of bodies. Still, the two were tiring, Varel could see that in their slower and stiffer movements whenever there was a gap in the falling snow.

Varel groped in his quiver for another bolt, but after spending a heartbeat or two scrabbling for one he realized there were just no more to be had. The soldiers had been reduced to using poorly-made darkspawn arrows that had not been broken, but they could not be fitted to his crossbow without a good deal of work. Fiona was picking off darkspawn with her staff, which apparently did not tax her strength like actual spellcasting did, but she could not use flashier spells without hurting the other Grey Wardens, and it seemed to take her a great of concentration to both maintain the ice roof and keep their weapons flaming.

"Sergeant, might I borrow your shield?" Varel said as he put his crossbow back into its case. No point in letting the string get wet in the snow.

"Sure, ser - ser?" Maverlies paused in the middle of drawing back her bow and stared as Varel set the shield on his arm and drew his longsword. "Where're you going?"

"The Grey Wardens need a moment's respite to rest, Sergeant, and I am going to give it to them." With that, Varel picked his way down the slope to the two men, nearly slipping on the treacherous snow-covered trail in surprise when his sword suddenly sprouted flames. The heat emanating from his weapon was a stark contrast to the cold wind on his face.

The Wardens were so preoccupied with the darkspawn that they did not acknowledge - perhaps did not even notice - Varel's arrival behind them. Hadrian blocked a mace swinging down, then lunged with his dagger, gutting the monster in front of him. The creature fell backwards, tangling up the ones behind it. This close, the stink of the darkspawn, the smell of burning flesh, and the iron tang of their blood stung Varel's nose.

Taking advantage of the lull in the battle, Varel shouted over the sounds of the darkspawn growls and clashing weapons, "Petrus, stand down and let me take your place for a while."

Petrus glanced over his shoulder, giving Varel a glimpse of a scarred, sweat-stained face drawn with weariness and spattered with darkspawn ichor. Not surprising, given how long the man had held the gap; the sun, what could be seen of it, had been high in the sky, and it was now much lower. "What? No! I cannot risk you getting Blight sickness -"

"We have no choice, ser - you're exhausted! If you fall, we will lose one of our most experienced warriors with knowledge of the darkspawn. Even if I do contract the sickness" - Maker, Varel hoped he would not - "Maverlies can still guide you back to the Vigil."

The Grey Warden made a frustrated noise in lieu of agreeing with Varel, and rammed his shield into the darkspawn in front of him. It staggered back, but the pressure of the ones behind it kept it upright. "All right, but we must wait for an opening!"

"Allow me, gentlemen."

Startled, Varel turned to see Fiona had come up behind him. Paying no heed to the fighting right in front of her, she stuck her staff in the small gap between Petrus and Hadrian and let loose with a blast of fire that turned the snow to steam. Varel flinched away from the sudden heat and brightness, and gagged on the stench of burning flesh that rolled over him.

Not even batting an eyelash at the sudden eruption of magical flames close enough to redden the skin on his face, Petrus lunged forward and shouted over the pained screams of the darkspawn, "Now, Hadrian, push! Push them back!"

Fiona, sounding very tired, stood back and said, "No need to thank me..."

Together the two Grey Wardens leapt over the heap of bodies in front of them and plunged into the darkspawn, which were writhing in pain from the fire, their filthy, diseased skin blackened and smoking. Petrus and Hadrian did not hesitate in taking full advantage of their distraction, cutting them down and literally pushing and shoving them back down the slope, and not too proud to use some dirty moves to do so. Varel saluted Fiona with his sword before he followed, grimacing as he trod on the corpses, which made a grisly if less slippery surface than the snow-covered stone.

"Seneschal, now!" Petrus shouted. The Wardens had driven the darkspawn back down to Petrus's original position.

Varel clapped his visor down, which had the added benefit of keeping his face warm, the snow out of his eyes, and some of the stink out, and jumped into the gap the Grey Wardens had made. The darkspawn were still trying to get their balance back, and he got a close look at them for the first time. He wished he had not, for they were monstrous caricatures of humans, with peeling, patchy skin and sharp yellow fangs in snarling mouths with terrible rotten-meat breath. All of them wore armor that had seen better days, rusty mail and plate that fit so badly there were plenty of vulnerabilities. Then there was no more time to look, because they finally recovered and rallied, charging up the slope at him in a howling mass.

Thanks to this constriction in the cleft, Varel did not have to meet them all at the same time, just one of them, but there seemed to be a neverending stream. He met the first one, a tall darkspawn with skin flaking off its face, what could be seen of it under the dirty, decades-out-of-fashion helmet. Its mace smashed into Varel's shield hard enough to nearly stagger him, but he was braced against it, and while it was still off balance from swinging that powerful blow, Varel thrust his sword into the gap between two plates crudely riveted together to cover its right flank. It sank in through the half-rotted, filth-encrusted gambeson beneath and into flesh. The creature screamed as Varel twisted his sword free and bashed his shield into it to make it fall back.

They were none of them all that skilled, Varel had time to think as he faced another of the creatures, this one short and squat, in a rusty mailshirt too long for it, and wielding a sword with an edge so jagged it resembled teeth. Varel swallowed as he parried it with his own and blocked the darkspawn's dagger with his shield, thinking the darkspawn probably did not clean their weapons, and that he was risking infection right along with the darkspawn corruption.

Then there was no more time to think as Varel let his reflexes and training take over, stand his ground and endure as the darkspawn kept coming. Sweat poured down his brow in spite of the cold, and he struggled to breathe in the stuffy confines of his helmet, trying and failing to keep from also inhaling that peculiar darkspawn stink. The world narrowed in his vision, as he moved his arms this way and that to riposte and parry and thrust, his shield to block and bash and counter. The enemies blurred, one into another.

A particularly huge darkspawn came up the path, in better more ornate armor than the rest of its fellows, a full-face helmet - complete with horns - and bearing a double-headed axe that belonged more in a castle's collection of ceremonial weapons than on the battlefield. It was a huge, unwieldy thing, inlaid with silver and gold and gems that were now tarnished by dirt and neglect. Varel was impressed - in a horrified way - that the creature was able to lift it at all. It would split Varel's shield in two if he tried to block it - and likely his arm, too.

It roared, and the darkspawn behind it growled and howled in response, and it would all have been very intimidating, but for a flight of arrows that whistled over Varel's head at that moment to fall among the group. The one in the lead had to halt its charge in order to duck. Varel grinned under his helmet as that timely distraction gave him the opening he needed.

This darkspawn's armor might be better than what the rest wore, but there were still gaps; the best armor was tailored to the wearer, and though they had done their poor best, the darkspawn had little skill in fitting armor they must have scavenged or stole. Varel feinted, dodged aside when that huge axe swung down like the wrath of the Maker, and stabbed the creature deep in the thigh, where the cuisse did not quite reach the poleyn. The darkspawn screamed and fell to one knee as dark ichor spurted from its wounded leg, its flesh sizzling from the flames on Varel's sword. Though it was crippled, Varel knew better than to think it was no longer dangerous. Varel had to evade the axe it waved at him as it struggled to stand - which was easier said than done, with the corpses clogging the path - then darted in and swung his sword at the thing's neck.

The creature ducked, and Varel cursed as the edge of his sword skittered off its gorget without doing any damage. He edged back, dodging another axe swing, and waited for an opportunity. None of the darkspawn behind the one in front helped it at all, leaving it to try to struggle to its feet alone while they tried to strike at Varel from around it, impeding its efforts to rise. The situation was like a scene out of a farce, if not for the deadly seriousness of it.

They exchanged a few more blows - or rather, Varel avoided getting hit with that axe - until he finally saw his chance when the darkspawn put its axe down, using it to lever itself up. He lunged forward and drove the point of his sword into the gap between the creature's helmet and gorget, and managed to get his weapon stuck as it struck to the bone. The darkspawn gurgled, letting go of the axe to grab the sword weakly, before it collapsed. Already the ones behind it were surging forward with wordless shouts and shrieks, forcing Varel to brace his foot against the dying monster's chest in order to yank out his sword. There was no arterial spray as he had expected; the flames of his sword must have cauterized the wound. He was off balance for a moment, but someone behind him steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Ser, you should switch off with me before they get their act together," Varel heard Maverlies say. She was much smarter than the darkspawn, and did not try to attack their foes over his shoulder.

He could not spare any attention to shoot an incredulous glance over his shoulder. Using his shield to bash a darkspawn that had thrown itself at him, only to trip over the one Varel had just killed, he said, "Sergeant, you would risk catching the corruption!"

"Since we managed to take out the darkspawn archers, I ran out of arrows, and then it got too dark to aim even if we still had some left. So if I'm gonna die, I'd rather go down fighting, not cowering in a corner. We're all gonna take a turn, for as long as it takes." She sounded very grim, as well she might.

Varel did feel tired and a bit out of breath; it had been a long time since he had last fought in a real battle, not merely a sparring session, since he had been imprisoned for the duration of the Blight and the civil war. If the armsmaster could see him now, she would be jeering. "What of the Grey Wardens?"

"Fiona patched 'em up - they're resting now. Hadrian got banged up a bit more than Petrus, from the earlier fight and 'cause he ain't really a frontline fighter."

At some point during the fight the light had failed; the glow behind him must be from Fiona's staff, which explained why there had been no further helpful demonstrations of destructive magic. She was probably tired from using her healing magic, in addition to maintaining the flames of their weapons and the protective dome. They could not count on further aid from that quarter.

During a lull in the battle, Varel said, "Are you certain you want to do this, Sergeant?" Maverlies was young for a sergeant and had a promising career ahead of her - if Blight sickness did not cut it short.

"Don't _want_ to, but we ain't got much choice, ser."

Varel's sword felt more like a length of lead than a proper weapon by now, and his hands tingled unpleasantly from all the blows that had reverberated up his arms. The stink of death and darkspawn burned in the back of his throat. "Now, then! Lower your visor and switch!"

It was not easy, trying to maneuver in that tight space without ever turning his back on the darkspawn or stumbling over the corpses. Though the light from Fiona's staff was bright, it could not illuminate the cleft entirely, leaving deep pools of shadow in the corners that hid obstacles from view.

They managed it without either of them getting skewered or getting tangled up in one another. After a look to make sure Maverlies was holding her own, Varel retreated back up the path, seeking air unfouled by darkspawn breath, which was a weapon all on its own. Now that he was no longer exerting himself, he began to feel the cold again, and shivered as his sweat cooled.

Back in the shelter of the ice dome, Varel found the rest huddled near the horses, but not too close. Unsurprising, for the air was heavy with the smell of their nervous mounts. Well, if worse came to worst, they could burn the manure for heat.

"Petrus, Hadrian, are you all right?" Varel said as he raised his visor and approached them. He was about to clean and sheathe his sword, but it was still on fire. Not wanting to chance scorching his scabbard, he took a handful of snow and tried to wipe off what the flames had not burned off. The snow turned to water in an instant, sizzling on the metal.

"Ready for another round," Petrus said with a grim smile. "But this will not need to go on for much longer, thank the Maker."

"What? Why do you say that?" The unexpected news pleased Varel, who felt as if he had been fighting the diseased creatures for years.

"There are not many of them left," Hadrian said in his accented King's Tongue, speaking up for the first time. "You can hear the difference."

Varel turned his head to listen, and thought the darkspawn cries did seem fewer in number. "Have they retreated?" Were they planning to ambush them in the woods, where there would be no helpful chokepoints?

Petrus shook his head. "Darkspawn do not retreat, unless they have lost the guiding will of whatever leader they have rallied to, whether an archdemon or a particularly strong specimen of their kind. You killed one earlier. When I sensed it, I was going to take back over at that point, but you dispatched it before I could." He gave Varel an approving nod.

"Was that the one with the better armor?" None of the other darkspawn had carried such a huge weapon.

"Yes." Petrus snorted. "Stupid, really - this is the sort of fight where knives and short swords work best, not a hulking great weapon that should be hung over the fireplace as a conversation piece. Of course, no one has ever accused the darkspawn of intelligence."

"Until talking darkspawn showed up," Fiona murmured, as she came near to check Varel for injuries.

Petrus grunted. "Fortunately for us, there is none of that sort here. They will keep throwing themselves at the chokepoint, and die - as long as we can hold out. That means not panicking."

"How many more are left, Petrus? Can you tell?" Fiona said. Varel frowned, wondering that she did not know the answer herself.

"Perhaps a dozen, and no more alphas - that is what we call the darkspawn leaders, Seneschal," Petrus said. "And we have not, thank the Maker, encountered any emissaries or ogres, otherwise our situation would be quite dire."

"Emissaries?" Varel did not think the Grey Warden was referring to darkspawn diplomats, the very idea of which boggled the mind.

"That is what we call darkspawn mages. They are formidable foes, but also rare." Petrus rose and beckoned to Hadrian. "I have rested long enough; I will go and relieve your sergeant. It would be poor repayment of your hospitality if your soldiers contract the sickness because of us." He did not look at the newest Grey Warden, who ducked his head at the perceived rebuke.

A few moments later, Maverlies returned, covered with darkspawn blood but none the worse for wear that Varel could see. Fiona left his side to look the sergeant over.

"I'm fine, ser," Maverlies said as she raised her visor, sounding nervous when the mage bent close.

"The least little scratch could be infected, Sergeant," Fiona said in her acerbic way, ignoring the way Maverlies drew back. "Wound fever would be bad enough, even if you avoid the corruption."

"Fiona is a proper healer, not some ham-handed leech from a stall in the marketplace," Varel said to reassure sergeant, though he suspected her nervousness stemmed more from Fiona being a mage than from the quality of her care.

"Maker, people still use leeches?" The mage shuddered. "Not that I can do much at the moment when you are still wearing your armor. That will have to wait for a better time and place, somewhere far from here."

Full dark had fallen by the time Petrus, trailed by Hadrian, came back up the path and announced there were no more darkspawn nearby; Varel had deduced that already from the silence that had fallen.

"Now we just have to contend with the cold and snow, which may be the more dangerous foes," Petrus said. "They certainly cannot be stopped by force of arms. We cannot stay here - it is too exposed and I do not want any of you in close proximity the darkspawn bodies."

Fiona dismissed the ice dome and the flames of their weapons, then went ahead of them, lighting the way with her staff raised high. Even with that help, going back down the cleft was just as treacherous as the climb up had been; the horses were inclined to shy and balk at even dead darkspawn. Only Petrus's mount seemed unaffected. Morller and Deran kept the mabari on tight leashes, for fear they would try to investigate the corpses, as curious dogs will. Varel worried about where they were putting their paws, for it was unavoidable for them to keep out of the puddles of darkspawn ichor. By the time they reached the bottom, everyone was tired - more tired - and short of temper.

After removing the nose bags from their horses and getting in one last check of their mounts and gear, they all made use of various rocks to get back into the saddle. Even with Maverlies's assistance Varel had to conduct the usual undignified scramble to get back on.

"I am so used to our horses in the Anderfels, I never considered what would happen when yours encountered darkspawn for the first time," Petrus said, sounding very stiff and formal. "I apologize for not warning you, Seneschal."

Varel shook his head. "We were in the middle of a battle, ser, you didn't have a chance to explain. Let us not waste time on recriminations."

"Very well." Petrus looked about, to see all was in readiness. "We will have to return and burn the bodies properly. At least the cold will preserve them and keep them from stinking too much, and it is my hope that will also keep them from tainting the land. It would be wise to keep children from playing here when spring comes."

"Lots of loot lyin' 'round," Morller murmured as he cast an appraising eye over the fallen. The snow was already beginning to cover the grisly scene.

"They would have to be purified, first, preferably with fire," Fiona said. "The darkspawn taint everything they touch." Daunted, Morller subsided.

"Here we will have to defer to your judgement, Seneschal," Petrus said as he blinked snow out of his eyes. "Should we make camp, or do you know of better shelter nearby?"

Varel grimaced at the thought of trying to camp out in the open on a night such as this; he had not thought they would need tents, and so did not pack any. "Goodwife Turnoble's farm is quite close, but without the sun or stars, or a compass, I might well lead us around in circles."

"I have a compass," Hadrian said, and looked uncomfortable when everyone stared at him in surprise. He took out a wooden box the size of his palm and opened the lid, revealed a glass-covered windrose with a needle. "Will this do?"

"It will indeed," Varel said. "Fiona, if you would come near with your staff? Thank you."

With the help of Fiona's light and Hadrian's dry mariner's compass, Varel oriented himself, then led them all into the dark in what he hoped was the right direction, their passage cloaked by the falling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; real life intervened.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel and the Grey Wardens manage to find shelter from a very literal storm. Varel finds that cleaning up after a fight with darkspawn can be almost as tedious as facing them.

Using the ridge as a landmark, Varel led them north to the woods, where they found a break in the trees after blundering about a bit, marked by a small cairn. He had cause to bless the feuding ancestors of the current nobles, which had necessitated the placement of clear boundary lines and stones to spare their descendents further argument - not that it always worked.

The sooner they reached the Turnoble estate, the better; the cold seemed to settle deep into his bones, since he had given up his cloak to Hadrian. He was more worried than he dared let on to the Grey Wardens or the others, for the wind was rising, and the snow showed no signs of slackening. In fact, it looked to be falling more heavily than ever. His glance intersected with Maverlies's, who also had a certain nervousness in her eyes.

Once their horses had moved into the woods, the trees blocked some of the wind, but they could do nothing about the cold except pull down their hoods, huddle into their cloaks, and set themselves to endure. They did not dare push their mounts past a fast walk, for the unpaved path - hardly much better than a game trail - was covered with snow, hiding obstacles that could break a horse's legs, if they were unlucky. Their luck had not been of the best, this day. The dogs were having an especially hard time of it, with the snow chest deep for them in places.

"Perhaps one of us should move ahead and break the trail," Varel said. "We can take turns so that we do not tire any one horse."

"An excellent idea," Petrus said. "Ah, Fiona, does your staff only light up when you hold it, or will it still work if someone else takes it?"

"It will take more of my concentration if I hand it to someone else, but it should work."

Varel had not thought of having lights, since torches would be futile with the wind blowing so strongly. Goodwife Turnoble would not thank them if they accidentally set the woods on fire, unlikely as that seemed. "That would be a great help, ser."

With her staff lighting the way, Fiona took point once more, though it was dimmed to a vague glow through the billowing curtains of falling snow. Varel was glad to have something as a guide, for it was hard to see much further past his horse's ears. The others were but indistinct shadows that flitted about him like dark ghosts in an uneasy dream; even the normal jingling and creaking of their armor and their mounts' hoofbeats were muffled.

The journey seemed interminable, but at last the trees thinned again and opened up into a white-blanketed space. When Varel squinted, he thought he saw the warm glows of windows, if all this wandering about in the cold and dark had not addled his wits.

Maverlies, who had taken the lead at some point, paused. She looked uncomfortable, holding Fiona's staff as if it might explode in her hand. "We're here, ser."

With some effort, Varel shook off his exhaustion and glanced around, realizing their little group might look more than a trifle alarming to a farmwife. Maverlies must have thought the same, or she would not have stopped.

Recognizing shelter - and therefore food - was near, Varel's tired horse picked up the pace without his prompting. Dogs began barking, to be answered by their mabari, and before he approached any further, the door burst open, spilling out light and a disorderly mass of folk wearing hastily donned cloaks and furs. All of them were holding weapons that bore more resemblance to agricultural implements, though Varel spotted a couple of spears and swords. They checked themselves upon seeing them, staring in astonishment at the staff Maverlies carried, then the rest of them with the caution of those suddenly encountering armed soldiers. The ones nearest the door went back in and came out bearing torches that streamed in the wind, hissing as snow melted on them.

"Goodwife Turnoble?" Varel said, peering at the only one bearing a bow, an arrow already nocked. They all looked the same, men and women alike, bundled in their cloaks.

She jerked in surprise, then came forward. "Seneschal Varel?" she said, sounding incredulous. "What're ye doin' here?"

"Yes, about that..." Varel kicked his feet out of the stirrups and began to dismount, but his stiff legs were uncooperative, and he nearly fell off. Only hanging on to the saddle pommel kept him from measuring his length upon the snow-churned ground. Maker, he was tired.

"Oh, ye all must be frozen to the bone! Come in out of the snow, all of ye! Ye can explain later, when ye've warmed yerselves at the fire and eaten somethin' hot." Lowering her longbow, Goodwife Turnoble took charge at once, ordering her people to take their horses to the barn, another to go back inside and stir up the fire, and yet another to the kitchens to heat up food.

Varel glanced at the Grey Wardens to see if Turnoble's brusque commands offended them, but Fiona merely looked grateful, and Petrus, well, it was hard to discern Petrus's expression at the best of times. Hadrian, huddled in Varel's cloak, was silent. The weary soldiers roused themselves, dismounting to follow the farmwife's people. When Maverlies came to take the reins of Varel's mount, he was steady enough on his feet that he could afford to lose his mount's support. Now he was free to explain their presence to Turnoble, but that worthy was still busy chivvying her people.

Petrus returned after stabling his horse himself. "We need to clean our armor at once. Preferably somewhere the dirty water will not taint the land."

Suppressing a sigh, Varel said, "Yes, ser." He had to give the Grey Warden credit for being conscientious. He stamped his feet on the doorstep in an attempt to get most of the snow and mud off, then stepped into the house and closed the door, grateful for the warmth within. He did not want to alarm Turnoble, but she deserved to know what manner of creatures had been roaming her lands. "Goodwife Turnoble, a moment, please."

Turnoble paused in the middle of directing her youngest son to fetch extra bedding from a chest. "Yes?"

Varel lowered his voice. "We encountered darkspawn near your lands, near the ridge." He decided not to tell her why they had been out in force. They did not know for certain that the creatures were deliberately tracking Hadrian.

Her hand flew to her mouth at the mention of darkspawn. "Andraste preserve us!" She glanced at her boy, and lowered her voice, too. "Darkspawn, here?! And so close!"

"We slew all the ones we encountered, so it is my hope we have cleared them - from this area, at least. Now we need to clean their ichor off our armor." Varel managed to stop himself from telling her why, lest she drive them off for fear of Blight sickness spreading to her household.

Turnoble's eyes widened as she took in the dark splatters on Varel's armor, and she shrank back. "Ye can go 'round to the scullery. My husband hired some dwarves to install a pump there some years ago, and a small fireplace we use to heat the water for washin'. I'll get it lit and give ye some rags."

"Before you do that, I also must tell you we have an elf with us who is a Grey Warden, and an important guest of the Crown. I would greatly appreciate it if you and your people do not offer her insult, please." Varel wondered if he ought to mention Fiona was also Orlesian and a mage, but that might be too much for her on top of everything else.

She nodded, looking harried. "Right, I'll tell 'em."

Varel thanked her, braced himself for the cold, and went back outside to gather up Maverlies, Hadrian and Petrus. It was faster for them to troop around the back and into the whitewashed scullery, rather than going back in and tracking mud and snow on the nice clean floor of Turnoble's kitchen. A wide-eyed young farmhand brought them a bundle of cloth scraps and a bar of soap, lit some rushlights on holders stuck to the mantelpiece, and left them alone. There were wooden buckets and pots stacked up near the wall; the sergeant put a kettle under the pump and began working the lever, while Hadrian stirred up the fire.

Petrus took out the arming cap lining his helmet, then frowned at Hadrian - or rather, at Hadrian's chest. "We can run our helmets and armor through the fire, but Hadrian's leather armor would burn."

Pausing in the middle of loosening a buckle, Varel said, "Er, does hot water and soap not work on darkspawn blood? How is this sort of thing usually handled?"

"In the Anderfels, we treat leather armor with a special lacquer that keeps blood - from any creature - from soaking in," Petrus said. "It being a greater hazard there than anywhere else, outside of a Blight or the Deep Roads."

Varel gestured at Petrus's silk gambeson, which, while looking worn, was still serviceable, and did not bear any old or odd stains. "What about fabric? Surely whatever concoction you use cannot be applied to that material?" Perhaps it was enchanted in some way.

"Boiled in water and soap caustic enough to give you blisters, left to soak for hours, or burned if it cannot be salvaged after all that. Let us hope this farmwife's soap will do the trick here."

Maverlies, Varel, and Petrus set aside their weapons and stripped down to their tunics and trousers. As they squinted in the poor light, a careful inspection of their arming doublets revealed no darkspawn blood had seeped through to taint them. Varel borrowed a rusty set of blacksmith's tongs from Turnoble, who stared in at them in curiosity, which they used to hold pieces of their armor and mail in the flames of the fireplace. Hadrian was put to work scrubbing his leather armor with a damp, soapy rag, since it could not be soaked, for that would ruin the material. Petrus poked at Hadrian's gambeson, shaking his head over the slashes and dark stains, and set it to soak in another bucket of hot water. While they were at it, they washed themselves, too.

Turnoble poked her head into the scullery again. "Are ye all done? We've got pottage and bread waitin' in the kitchen for ye."

"Yes, thank you," Varel said with a grateful smile. The delicious scent of cooking food in the room just on the other side of the scullery had been making his stomach clench with hunger. "Maverlies, could you go see if Deran and Morller are all right? Make sure they don't let the dogs lick their paws - in fact, make sure both they and the horses are clean." He hoped the rags wrapped about the dogs' paws had protected them from the corruption. Battlefields were never as neat or sanitary as the history books implied, and they had left quite the bloody mess behind them.

"Yes, ser." Maverlies donned her armor - now a bit charred in spots - weapons, and cloak again, then opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air and a few snowflakes.

Hadrian put the pieces of his wet leather armor near the fireplace for them to dry, and went to check on his gambeson. "Leave it to soak overnight," Petrus said. "It will have to be mended once it is dry."

"If there is nothing more to be done here, I should introduce you to Goodwife Turnoble properly," Varel said as he adjusted his mail mantle. "She has been very patiently waiting for explanations."

Petrus checked his own appearance, and nodded. Varel led the two Grey Wardens into the kitchen and was immediately subjected to inquisitive looks, for Turnoble, the older members of her family, and farmhands were waiting on benches around a scarred oak table. The women had baskets of mending in their laps and needles in hand, and the men had whittling knives, but they set aside their tasks in anticipation of this new entertainment. The children, it seemed, had all been put to bed, no doubt under protest.

Turnoble put down her spindle and went to the pot hanging over the fire, from which the most delicious scents were emanating. She gestured at one of two empty benches set aside for their guests, close to the fire. "Sit, sit! Yer soldiers will come in soon; they're almost done takin' care of the horses and dogs in the barn." 

Varel and the Grey Wardens set their weapons in a cluttered corner and sat where they were directed. "Thank you again for giving us food and shelter," Varel said, smiling up at Turnoble as she handed him a bowl of pottage and a piece of toasted dark bread spread with soft goat cheese. He nodded to the other two men. "This is Petrus and Hadrian, Grey Wardens." He almost elaborated, until he realized he would have to also explain Hadrian's origins as a sea captain who had been involved in slaving.

Petrus stood up and gave the farmwife a little bow. "A pleasure, Goodwife Turnoble. Thank you for your hospitality on this inhospitable night." Hadrian copied the courtesy.

"Well... well, we couldn't just let ye die of cold right on our doorstep," Turnoble said, sounding a little flustered. She dished out more pottage and handed bread to the Grey Wardens. "Especially if it's true about you killing the darkspawn."

Since the rest of their audience did not erupt with gasps of horror, Varel thought the farmwife had already told them. "It is. Once the storm has passed and we've returned to the Vigil, I'll send out some soldiers to collect and burn the bodies. Er, with your permission?" At Turnoble's frantic nod, he continued, "Please keep the children from playing there before then. And after." He almost asked her to tell the other families in the area to keep away from the ridge, but realized it would be easier - and perhaps safer - for a Vigil soldier to do that.

Turnoble frowned. "Ye're goin' to give those horrible creatures an honorable pyre? Seems a waste of good wood."

"It is no honor, but necessity," Petrus said. "They are filthy and diseased, and must be cleansed by fire to prevent their corruption from spreading and tainting the land. Please do not touch anything of theirs for that reason, nor should you go there to scavenge or collect any souvenirs."

The farmwife wrinkled her nose, but a few of the younger farmhands looked a trifle guilty. "Well, at least ye won't risk settin' fire to the woods in this season. But I thought the Grey Wardens - I mean, _our_ Grey Wardens - got rid of all the darkspawn. Why are they still hangin' about?"

Petrus cleared his throat. "When they slew the archdemon, they broke its hold upon the darkspawn horde, and with its will no longer directing them, they fled in all directions. This is the period we call the Thaw, where we drive them off the surface. Or we would, if there were more Grey Wardens in Ferelden." Varel controlled a wince, recalling why there were so few. Petrus, too, did not mention talking darkspawn.

There were the sounds of boots stamping outside the door, then Fiona and the other soldiers banged in, smelling of horse and burdened with their packs and saddlebags, interrupting the daunted silence. Varel introduced them, and Turnoble bustled about once more, feeding the newcomers. Varel was alert for any inappropriate remarks or hostile stares the farmhands might direct the mage's way, but they only darted curious looks at her out of the corners of their eyes, the same ones they had thrown to the exotic foreigners. He hoped that in the dim light, Fiona's staff would be taken for a particularly fancy walking stick.

After swallowing a bite of bread, Varel said to the farmwife, "I will bring back some food to replace what we are eating when we return to burn the bodies. I know how closely you have to watch your supplies in this season."

Turnoble snorted as she took up her spindle again. "The idea! Ye all killed them darkspawn, and ye want to argue with me about the _food_? Ye can eat all ye like." She cocked her head, listening to the wind blowing outside. "Ye'll have to stay until the storm blows itself out, anyway."

Varel wondered how the others were taking his absence from the Vigil, but if it was madness to go chasing after a stray Grey Warden while snow was falling, there was no word to describe trying to run back home in a blizzard. He tried to console himself with the fact that nothing much happened in the winter - if one ignored recent events like the Blight ending, the new king and queen's betrothal, the slaver raid, talking darkspawn...

Hadrian scraped up the last of his pottage with the bit of bread he had not already devoured, and tried to stifle a yawn. It was contagious, and soon Varel and Petrus were yawning, too. Turnoble spotted it and popped to her feet at once. "Oh, ye all must be exhausted, and here we're natterin' at you when ye must want yer beds."

This time Turnoble roused her whole family and hired help to assist in making nests of furs and blankets in front of the fire. Varel was grateful, when he had expected to be put up in the barn loft. Of course, after his time in the mine, his standards for proper accommodations were much lower. The Turnobles were prosperous, and boasted a second floor to their house, which was where the family slept, while the ground floor was set aside for work and gathering areas. The hirelings got the spots by the walls furthest from the fireplace, displaced by the guests.

Deran and Morller took their turns in the scullery, though they only had to scrub themselves. The rest of them took off their armor and bedded down, though Petrus made sure Fiona had a spot right before the fire, and set himself between her and everyone else. Varel was not sure whether this was from an effort at chivalry, or practical consideration of the only non-soldier in the group.

After making sure his sword was by him, Varel yawned, let himself fall into the comfortable pile of furs, and knew nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to clean up and prepare for an apartment inspection, was too tired after that to update on time.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel and the Grey Wardens reach safety, but learn that their hostess has troubles of her own.

Varel woke when the Turnoble household did, as the family and hirelings roused and began the day with noisy clumpings of boots. There was always work to be done on a farm, even in winter, as Varel remembered from his childhood, though most of it would be accomplished indoors. He stifled a groan as he disentangled himself from his blanket and furs, feeling the stiffness from the fight yesterday and a night spent on the floor. The wind was still audible through the stout log walls, which meant the storm had not yet abated. He sighed, not looking forward to a trip outside.

The others were stirring, awakened by the noise and the scents of baking bread. Varel took the opportunity to don his gambeson and snatch up his cloak from where Hadrian had left it, wrapping it around himself and slipping out the door to take care of business. Someone - perhaps Turnoble - had helpfully strung ropes to guide people on the paths. They were needed, as dawn looked much the same as evening outside. He lowered his head, grab hold of the rope, clutched his cloak closed with the other, and headed for the privy.

By the time Varel returned, shivering as he brushed off the snow from his hair and shoulders, Turnoble was serving everyone porridge and fresh bread, still hot from the oven. Varel went to the scullery for a quick wash of his face and hands, then returned to the kitchen, where Maverlies and Deran shuffled aside on a bench to make room for him.

Varel had the leisure and energy this morning to take a good look around Turnoble's home, and saw a well-kept home, with simple but polished wood panels on the walls that hid the raw logs, a large window on the east side - now shuttered - had real glass panes, an extravagance that both let in light for work and showed off the Turnobles' prosperity. Not so prosperous that they could afford tea, alas, but the farmwife had brewed a fresh batch of small beer the previous day, and he could feel it doing him good as he drank it. Even though the ground floor consisted of only two rooms, the kitchen and the scullery, it was crowded with everyone gathered there.

"Hadrian," Varel said, and waited for the other man's wary nod. "Was there anyone in the charcoal burner's hut when you took shelter there? Was it abandoned?"

"No," Hadrian said. "I didn't have much time to take a good look around, but I saw tools and a bed made up inside, so I don't think it was abandoned. And there were pieces of wood stacked up near the pit."

Turning to his hostess, Varel said, "Goodwife Turnoble, do you know the charcoal burner who lives southeast of the ridge? It's near the North Road, perhaps a mile or two away."

She swallowed a bite of porridge and shook her head. "Ye know they keep themselves to themselves. Why?"

Varel pictured the frightened and bewildered charcoal burner returning home to find all those darkspawn bodies littering his doorstep, and tried not to wince. He hoped whoever it was had the mother wit to take precautions when handling them. "Well, we left a bit of a mess there, too."

Turnoble stared at him, opened her mouth, then prudently closed it. "Ye know... I don't want to know."

As people finished eating, they left the table to attend to the day's tasks. Maverlies led Deran and Morller to the stable to check on the animals, the hirelings also banged their way out to do whatever chores Turnoble had assigned them, leaving Varel and the Grey Wardens with the women and the older members of the household.

Fiona went to retrieve her pack from the pile of their belongings, opened it, and began to lay out pungent-smelling bundles with a purposeful air. While she opened a dark roll of cloth to reveal thread and needle, a young girl came out of the scullery with a basin of steaming hot water and set it on the table. "It's time I checked everyone properly for injuries. Hadrian, you took the brunt of the attack, so you're first." She beckoned to the newest Grey Warden and patted the bench.

It was true that Hadrian's dark, handsome features were somewhat marred by the bruises and swollen, split lips. Varel was amused by the covert stares the women sent the former sea captain's way, despite his battered face, when he pulled off his tunic and sat down where Fiona indicated with a resigned sigh. Hadrian ignored the muffled giggles and titters with great dignity.

Fiona herself looked much better this morning, though there were dark circles under her eyes, and she had moved as stiffly as Varel when she woke. It made him wonder how old she was. She had the sort of face that aged well, wrinkles around the eyes that could have been from staring across the steppes or the darkness of the Deep Roads, and there was no gray in her black hair, so it was hard to tell.

Using a rag dipped in the water, the mage cleaned Hadrian's various bruises, cuts, and scrapes, ignoring his winces and stifled yelps. Once that was done, she threaded the needle and sewed a long but shallow slash on Hadrian's arm, then smeared some sort of ointment on it before bandaging and poulticing it and the other wounds. The former sea captain looked shaken but very relieved by the time she was through. Shooing him off, Fiona then beckoned to Petrus, who was familiar enough with this ritual that he was already pulling his own tunic off. Hadrian breathed out a covert sigh of relief, and put his clothes back on, much to the disappointment of the onlookers. Petrus sent him off to the scullery to check on his gambeson, which was still soaking in soapy water.

Varel noted that Fiona did not use any magic at all, perhaps in deference to their provincial audience, or because she was still too weary from the previous day's efforts to spare it for non-fatal wounds, especially when they were no longer in a battlefield situation. It was obvious to him that the spectacular displays of power she had demonstrated cost her, and he could only guess at the sort of coin she had to pay, or how much.

While Petrus bore up under Fiona's pokings and proddings with his usual grim stoicism, Varel leaned over to Turnoble, who was busy spinning more wool, but not so busy that she could not send a few appreciative glances the Grey Warden's way. "I noticed you were quite quick to grab your weapons when the dogs barked last night. Have you been having trouble with bandits?"

Turnoble's brows crimped with annoyance. "Not... not bandits exactly."

Varel frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm just not sure, ye see." At Varel's encouraging gesture, Turnoble went on. "At first, see, one of my farmhands just saw a few people, don't know who, down the road. But when they didn't come near to talk, Kev took a dog and went up to 'em, but they just slipped away when they saw him comin'. Just left without sayin' a word. Bit of a puzzler, that was. Didn't think much of it 'til it happened again."

"You mean they were just... lurking? What did they look like? Were they wearing armor? Did they have horses?"

Turnoble shook her head. "They were all covered up in their cloaks, so we don't know what they looked like. Kev said he thought one of 'em was Lady Liza's soldiers, and heard their mail jinglin', but it was dark and his eyes ain't what they used to be. They left on foot, but if they had horses, I suppose they might've hidden 'em in the woods. Didn't find any signs when we looked in the mornin', though."

Varel tried to remember which noble this area's freemen had pledged themselves to. "Who do you look to for protection? Ser Derren or Lord Bensley?"

"Ser Derren. He's young, but he seems an all right sort. For a noble."

"Has Lady Liza's soldiers ever bothered you?" It would not be the first time a noble used intimidation as a tactic to woo away another noble's freemen.

"Not to speak of, as long as we don't get between 'em and Ser Derren's men. Ye know how chapped he was when the old arl promised her the tolls from that new bridge his father built. Lots of bad feelin' between 'em over that."

Varel nodded. The deal had been brokered during his imprisonment, but Lowan had informed him of the late arl's deeds. Lady Liza had supported Arl Howe and Teyrn Loghain, while Ser Derren had been one of the few who opposed them. He realized the legality of that agreement was now in question, given that it had been arranged by a declared traitor; what promised to be a contentious issue was bound to turn up in the arling's court sooner or later, once the Warden-Commander arrived at Vigil's Keep.

"I take it they are no longer content to simply lurk?"

Turnoble looked both disturbed and frustrated. "They've been messin' us about: fence posts pulled out, our woodpile scattered, rope the men had plaited cut. Nasty little pranks, I'd call 'em, but I haven't offended no one lately, I don't think. We can repair or replace it all, but it's a right nuisance, is what it is." There were scowls and mutters of agreement among the older folks of her family.

"That doesn't sound like typical bandit behavior," Varel said, his brow furrowing.

"I know! We've had to put a guard on the barn, for fear they'd steal the beasts, or just drive 'em out into the cold, or burn the hay." The farmwife's hands clenched on the thread she was spinning, then she had to smooth it out again before she ruined it. "Nothin' really bad's happened yet, but... I wonder how long that's goin' to last. Soon we'll be too busy with the spring plantin' to watch for trouble."

"Why haven't you sent a message to me?"

Turnoble gave him a look. "Send a messenger? In _this_ weather? And not knowin' who all might be waitin' or watchin' for 'em?"

"Ah. Right." Varel turned his empty cup around and around in his hands as he thought. "Are you certain it isn't one of your neighbors harassing you? A noble?" And why pick the dead of winter to do it? The animals were all kept inside in this weather, so there was little opportunity to steal them or run them off, it did not take an expert tracker to find footprints in the snow - not to mention it was easy to get turned around in a storm, as he had found last night. 

The farmwife refilled Varel's cup. "Certain as I can be without goin' 'round askin'."

"It sounds as if someone is either trying to drive you off - or intimidate you, I think. But who? And why? Has anything out of the ordinary happened, besides these incidents?"

"Well, Lady Liza's soldiers turned up a few days after the first time it happened, asked if there were bandits about. I thought it was strange at the time, that they'd bother with another noble's people, but I shrugged it off. Maybe they were chasin' some, and hot on the trail, I don't know. After the second time, I told one of Ser Derren's patrols what was goin' on when they came by." Turnoble's face twisted up with doubt. "The patrol leader didn't seem too happy."

Was Lady Liza looking to woo away Ser Derren's freeholders - by hook or by crook? Assuming Turnoble's farmhand was not mistaken. And assuming there was not a third noble stirring up more trouble between the two - not that they needed the help. Assumptions were dangerous things, possibly even more so than darkspawn. He needed more information, and he needed to take a great deal of care in his investigations; he simply could not make accusations of one or another noble with impunity, especially without the backing of his arlessa.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Varel said. "I don't know if there is anything I can do about it, but I will certainly try."

"That's all anyone can ask," the farmwife said, looking relieved.

Varel was so involved in his own thoughts when Fiona called him that he hardly noticed the women's stares when he took his gambeson, and then his tunic off, or the mage when she poked at some bruises on his torso, where one darkspawn or another had managed to land a few hard blows past his shield. They had been blunted by his armor and the thick arming doublet beneath, so they were not nearly as bad as the ones Hadrian sported, thus sparing him from anything more than a few smears of smelly ointment.

"Thank you," Varel said when she was done and he was able to put his tunic and gambeson back on.

"I take it something is amiss?" Looking apologetic, Fiona gestured to the crowded room. "I could not help overhearing."

Varel sat back down on the other bench, leaving the one by the mage empty for her other patients. "If it is not some feud, and I have not heard of anyone bearing a grudge against Goodwife Turnoble, there is something going on here that smells like Amaranthine's docks in high summer."

Petrus, looking intrigued, gestured for Varel to go on. "Would you care to elaborate?"

And so Varel found himself explaining the increasingly acrimonious relations between Ser Derren and Lady Liza to the Grey Wardens, the possible connection between that and the tricks someone was playing on the Turnobles, and his speculations. The politics were simple enough for even Petrus, a man who spent much of his time on solitary patrol, to grasp. Fiona, coming from a more cosmopolitan background, understood immediately.

"If this were Orlais, I would say a noble - or several of them - are playing the Grand Game, though in a particularly crude sort of way. But this is Ferelden, where I thought your people are too practical for such frivolities." Everyone in the room, except for Varel and the Grey Warden, frowned at her, reminded she was an Orlesian. 

"Could it be refugees trying to drive away the people here, so they can move in?" Petrus said. "That is how some of the tribes of my people in the Anderfels survive."

Varel shook his head. "All the refugees I've seen are ill equipped for that sort of attack, and even if they were successful, they would never be allowed to keep their claim. It would set a terrible precedent. Besides, Goodwife Turnoble and her folks are made of sterner stuff than that." He nodded at that worthy, who brandished her spindle like a sword and grinned. The farmwife's husband had been conscripted when Ser Cauthrien had raised the levies during the Blight, and died at Denerim, but his wife was just as capable of fighting off threats to her own.

"We may be jumping to conclusions here," Fiona said. "This may be part of a different plot altogether. There may, in fact, not be a plot at all, though I realize this is unlikely. It just seems a bit on the small-minded side."

"Yes, it does, ser." Varel thought the mage was right: this was far from anything that would bring down thrones or change the fate of nations, but sooner or later, these malicious pranks would go too far, and people _would_ get hurt.

They were not his charge; their protection was the responsibility of the nobles they looked to. But Varel could not help but feel incensed at this senseless vandalism, because people struggled to survive the winter, and had enough troubles of their own. And an unpleasant thought occurred to him: what if this was meant to somehow discredit the Warden-Commander, because she was not here to keep the nobles in line? When the lesser nobles lost sight of their duties, it was the job of the arl or arlessa to remind them - at the point of a sword, if necessary, though of course there were more subtle ways. He imagined the rumors starting and taking on a life of their own, as rumors often will. It would be so _easy_. That sort of insidious slander, a pointed look here, a whispered word there - how could you fight against something like that?

This distressing line of thought was interrupted, somewhat to Varel's relief, when Fiona lowered her voice to a whisper, aware of the children listening in. "Petrus, you don't suppose the _darkspawn_ are behind these cruel tricks?"

"No. There would be more bodies," the Grey Warden said, though he was tactful enough to keep his voice quiet. "No insult to this farmwife, Seneschal, but her steading would be overwhelmed in an instant if they decided to attack it."

Varel was relieved by Petrus's conclusion, despite the grim words. Human malice he understood and could deal with; darkspawn - much less talking darkspawn - were still a disturbing mystery. "Best if we keep that opinion to ourselves, ser, or we would have a fight on our hands."

"You had better watch your step, Seneschal," Fiona said, giving Varel a knowing look. "Lest you step in something you can't step out of. You are sure to offend someone if you are not careful."

"I am not without experience in these matters, ser."

"Why now, I wonder? Surely it would be easier to hide these ill deeds when everyone is busy with the spring planting?" Petrus said, not realizing he was echoing Varel's earlier thoughts.

"I was thinking the same, ser," Varel said. "I suppose because the winter weather keeps everyone indoors, making it hard for their victims to discover what they had done. And it keeps them isolated from one another."

"Hard to search for the culprits, as well, as we found yesterday," Petrus said, glancing at the doorway to the scullery. "Even your famous mabari dogs would have trouble, I think."

Varel managed to tamp an outraged retort down to a surly grunt, for no Fereldan, lowborn or high, would ever willingly admit a mabari was not equal to any task. "It certainly does not help me."

"Petrus, mind what I said about how Fereldans feel about their dogs," Fiona said in a surprisingly sharp tone. That she, an Orlesian, understood was the height of irony that Varel could not fail to appreciate. "That came dangerously close to a mortal insult."

"Ah. I apologize, since I certainly did not intend offense." Petrus made a sitting-down bow to Varel that he extended to the glowering members of their audience as he turned on the bench. The implication that if he _did_ intend offense, his target would be very sure of it, was left unspoken.

A fraught silence fell in the wake of this apology, and Turnoble broke it a bit desperately by turning the conversation to the garbled rumors she had heard of slavers in Amaranthine, who according to her were kidnapping farmers from remote freeholds. Varel suspected that she and her family were also starved for news, given her estate's isolatation by winter storms and its distance from the North Road. Varel was pleased to be able to set her straight, though he was glad Hadrian was in the scullery and out of earshot.

Out of an old habit of discretion, he downplayed his own role in the affair, choosing instead to make the Grey Wardens the heroes of the story, starting with the Fereldan Grey Wardens' scouring of the Denerim alienage just before the end of the Blight. Fiona and Petrus gave him dry, ironic looks, but did not disagree with his version of the events. His audience listened with rapt attention to the tale, and plied him with more ale whenever he paused to wet his dry throat.

Maverlies and the other two soldiers came in as Varel was wrapping up the story. Turnoble's young girl took away the basin of now cold, dirty water Fiona had been using to clean wounds, and returned a moment later with a new rag and more hot water.

"Sergeant, Fiona is taking this opportunity to look everyone over for injuries," Varel said, knowing they would be reluctant to approach the mage without his prompting them.

The sergeant made a face. "Yes, ser." She took advantage of her rank to order Deran and Morller ahead of her with a slight frown furrowing her brow.

"You know the dangers of ignoring wounds," Varel said, thinking he knew the cause of that frown. "Especially ones dealt by -" he glanced at the children and amended what he had been about to say - "what we fought."

"It's not that, ser." The sergeant glanced at the curious onlookers and bent to speak into Varel's ear. "We found a small cut on Mer's left hind paw last night when we were taking care of the animals, and today he seems off his feed. Bit sluggish, too. We cleaned the cut and bandaged it as soon as we found it, I swear."

"I believe you." Varel managed to keep his face from showing his dismay, for there had to be something very wrong with a dog - any dog, much less a mabari - that it would not eat all the food in sight. "What about Blackfoot?"

"She seems fine. Eating her head off."

"Separate Mer from the other beasts at once. Is there an empty stall available?"

Maverlies nodded. "Did that yesterday, ser. I put him in the pen the Turnobles use for nursing pregnant ewes and sick lambs."

"Good," Varel said, hoping against hope that it was just an infected cut, and not Blight sickness. But even infected wounds could kill, and Mer was an old dog. He turned to Fiona, who was busy wrapping a poultice on Deran's bruised arm. "Fiona, could I trouble you to look in on our animals when you are done here?"

"Of course." The mage gave Varel a sharp look at the edge of worry she heard in his voice. "If our hostess has any beasts she would like me to look at, I suppose I can check them at the same time."

Turnoble's brows flew up in surprise. "Never thought I'd hear an Orlesian lower herself to treat animals."

"Fiona is not your typical Orlesian," Petrus said.

The farmwife subsided at the implied rebuke, and tried to make up for her rudeness by offering Fiona another cloak, one that was not nearly as fancy as the one Fiona used, but thicker and lined with fur. The mage accepted it with enough grace and gratitude to smooth things over between them. Once Fiona was done treating Maverlies, both women donned their cloaks and left for the barn.

Varel turned his attention to his gear, because that was more constructive than biting his fingernails and wondering what the kennelmaster would say if he returned to the Vigil with one less mabari than he had started out with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, a (few) day(s) late and a dollar short.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel and the Grey Wardens return safely to the Vigil, and Varel has to come up with a solution to a developing scheme that may be intended to discredit him, the Warden-Commander, and the order.

As if to show contrition for the storm that they had had to fight through when they set out five days ago, the weather was clear as Varel and the others rode towards the Vigil. The sun was a hand past noon, and the blue sky was so intense it was as if the Maker had upturned a cerulean bowl over the whole world. The horn that announced their arrival rang out crisp and clear in the cold air, and despite some anxiety as to what Rullens and the housekeeper would say about his absence, he was glad to be home again. So were their horses and their remaining dog - and he was not looking forward to seeing the kennelmaster - and they surged up the slope.

The stablemaster brightened at seeing their old gelding returned as they trotted into the outer courtyard, then his face drew into a brief scowl when he spotted Hadrian. He said nothing, however, as he rousted the grooms out of the warmth of the stables to take their horses.

Varel suppressed a wince when he saw the kennelmaster coming out to lean his arms on the low fence that surrounded his little domain. There was no point in putting it off any longer, he was going to have to talk to the man, Maker help him. Hadrian seemed sunk in misery, as he had been ever since Mer's funeral, but Fiona and Petrus gave Varel gracious nods when he excused himself from their company. He legged his horse over to a mounting block and slid off, taking Blackfoot's leash from Deran as he walked by.

The kennelmaster was already frowning as he watched Varel approach. "Where is Mer, Seneschal?" He took the leash and absently patted the mabari as she pawed and barked at him in enthusiastic greeting, her stubby tail wagging.

Pulling himself together, Varel gestured at the kennels. "Could we speak in private?"

Though his frown deepened, the kennelmaster jerked his head at the entrance to the kennels. Inside, the other man unattached the leash and shooed the mabari into a stall, where a page was already setting out bowls of food and water. The young girl laughed as the much larger Blackfoot nearly knocked her onto her rump, and scratched the dog's ears as she licked the child's face.

The kennelmaster dismissed the page, then turned to Varel, his frown turning into a scowl. "All right, stop stalling and tell me what happened."

Varel could not help but envy the dog, but reached into his belt pouch and took out a small bag. "I'm sorry, but this... this is all that is left of Mer."

The other man took the bag, his face gone blank with incomprehension, as if he were refusing to believe this was all that was left of his beloved mabari. "What? How could this -"

"When we were ambushed by darkspawn, we were forced to make our stand on top of the ridge near the Turnoble estate. Do you know of it?" At the kennelmaster's impatient nod, Varel went on. "Then you know how twisty and narrow the path is. After we managed to fight them off, we had no choice but to step onto their corpses and through puddles of their blood to leave, which is where I think Mer took a cut on his paw. By then night had fallen, and it was snowing, so we had to go on without stopping. We only discovered his injury once we had reached safety some hours later."

"Mer contracted Blight sickness?" The kennelmaster's face worked, and his hand clenched on the bag. "Did you... did you give him the mercy stroke?"

Varel nodded. "Once I realized he was afflicted with the darkspawn corruption and not simple infection, I made sure to give him a painless death myself." He felt his eyes prickle, remembering how the dog had licked his hand, as if forgiving him for what he was about to do. Poor Mer had been suffering such pain - and was intelligent enough to be aware of it. "We held a proper funeral ceremony, and Goodwife Turnoble scattered the rest of his ashes on the east side of her land, where the fields get the best sunlight."

"That's... that's good. Mer always did like lazing about in the sun. Has since he was just a pup," the other man said. "Was he at least useful?" he said, searching Varel's face for he knew not what.

"Oh, yes. He picked up the trail quite handily."

The kennelmaster stared down at the pouch in his hand. "Good. He died doing what he was born for."

"You know, with the possibility of more darkspawn showing up here in the arling, we need to devise better protection for the rest of the dogs," Varel said. He hoped giving the kennelmaster something meaningful to do would distract him from his grief.

"Yes... yes, of course," the other man said, frowning more in thought now instead of anger. "There isn't much more that can be improved about their armor, I don't think, but what happened with Mer means we need stronger paw coverings."

"One of the Grey Wardens mentioned there was a plant found in the Korcari Wilds that could cure the sickness in dogs, though apparently it does not work for humans, alas. Perhaps you can look into that, as well. We had a hard time keeping the dogs from charging in to bite the darkspawn. In the heat of battle, instinct may overcome training."

The kennelmaster grunted. "It probably won't grow this far north, but we need all the help we can get. I'll see what I can do. I don't suppose you have any contacts in the south?"

"I'm afraid not. Even if I did, I doubt they would still be there after all the chaos the Blight left in its wake. I suppose I can ask the Warden-Commander - she is the one who told our guests."

"I'd appreciate it if you would."

Varel was happy to concede to this request, and even happier that the kennelmaster had not raged at him, considering the man was well within his rights to tear a strip off him up one side and down the other for losing a valuable mabari. After he promised to write a letter to the Warden-Commander, he left the warmth of the kennels, looking forward to a bath and the sanctuary of his own quarters.

But Rullens put paid to Varel's plan by accosting him as soon as he entered the keep. "Varel, _where have you been?!_ " He did not give Varel to speak before continuing with his harangue. "Do you realize that if you'd died out there we would've been completely buggered? You're the only one the Warden-Commander allowed any authority to make binding agreements!"

"I really did not expect to be gone so long," Varel said. "And the weather for the past few days failed to cooperate until we started back for the Vigil."

"Was it really worth all that bother just to get an old gelding back? I mean, horses are expensive and it's true we don't have that many spares, but it would be savings in feed."

Varel was taken aback at the realization that Rullens did not know the true reason why he had been gone for most of a sennight. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office? I do have news to tell you."

The captain sighed. "Bad news, I take it?"

"How did you know?"

"Would you need to tell me good news in private?"

"Well, no," was Varel's rueful reply as he led the other man to his office.

Varel's office was dark and cold, but wood had been laid down in readiness. He pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them onto the table, then took off his cloak and hung it up before walking over to the fireplace. Picking up a splinter, he went out to the hall to light it from a torch, returned to set it to the dry tinder, and soon the room was lit by a bright, hot fire.

They had just sat down, and Rullens had opened his mouth to speak when there was a peremptory knock on Varel's door. Before he could say anything, it banged open, revealing a very irate housekeeper in the doorway. She pinned Varel with a glare and put her hands on her hips. " _You_ ," she said, packing into a single word a wealth of hostility.

Though Varel had faced many dangers in his time, it took an effort not to wince and quail before the woman, who was justifiably angry. "Ah, Clara, it is good to see you again -"

"Don't ye 'Clara' me, and don't ye hand me that pile of horse apples!" The housekeeper stomped over to them and poked Varel in the chest. "I told ye, ye ain't gonna put me in charge again! And then ye go and put me in charge! Again! I said it t' last time ta Captain Lowan - Maker rest his soul - and I ain't havin' it! I got nuff ta do runnin' t' castle, I ain't got _time_ fer anythin' else!"

Grateful for his armor, Varel said in his most soothing tones, "Now, Clara, I had to help the Grey Wardens find Hadrian, and with both Rullens and Garevel away at the time, Maverlies and I were the only ones who know the arling well enough to guide them."

Rullens frowned. "Wait, what do you mean, you had to help them find Hadrian? I didn't realize he was lost in the first place."

Varel sighed. "The man ran away, just as a snowstorm was brewing. You can imagine what the Warden-Commander would say if I told her we had lost one - or more, because Petrus was all for haring off after him alone. Oh, and keep this to yourselves, please - I can't imagine the Grey Wardens would want gossip about this going around the barracks and kitchens."

Both Clara and Rullens paused and looked very thoughtful at that. The housekeeper stopped poking Varel, to his relief. "I suppose ye had ta go, then," was her grudging admission, but her scowl told Varel not to push his luck.

"Right, well, we're changing that first thing," Rullens said. "One of us always stays here at the Vigil, even if there's another darkspawn invasion."

"I suppose I see the wisdom of that, though it would mean rearranging the patrol schedule. Again," Varel said.

Rullens made a face, but waved his warning aside. "That can't be helped. You haven't said anything, but we have taken the fact that you're here most the time for granted. We had a strict rotation back when the arl was still alive and in Denerim, mostly so he'd know exactly who to blame, but we've let that lapse since. Now it's just you or whoever's the ranking officer on duty, and we never made formal provision for what should happen if there's neither."

"And t'ain't gonna be me." The housekeeper fixed Varel with a basilisk stare; he did his best to look meekly apologetic. From Clara's disbelieving snort, it fooled no one. "I'm quittin' and goin' back ta me sister's shop if ye do it ta me again, so be told!"

"I truly did not think anything would happen in my absence that you could not handle, Clara, especially when a snowstorm was about to descend on us," Varel said, making haste to reassure the woman in case she really did intend to carry out her threat. The housekeeper's absence would leave a huge gap in the senior staff, one that Adria was not yet ready to step into.

Clara seemed mollified by that. "Aye, well, I told that Captain Lowan - Maker rest his soul - that I ain't suited ta doin' yer job, and next time somethin' really might happen. Ain't gonna be responsible fer that." Her face grew mulish.

"Clara's right," Rullens said. "Garevel isn't going to like me messing up the schedule he just put together, but we can't have this sort of uncertainty - we have to clarify the line of succession."

The housekeeper's brow wrinkled. "Seems like a fancy way of sayin' ye just go on down rank ta rank." 

Looking amused, the captain said, "But Clara, _you're_ not a soldier, yet I have every confidence you could hold this castle in a siege."

Clara just gave Rullens a look as she made to leave. "Don't even joke 'bout it, ye fool." Turning back to Varel, she said, "Ye missed dinner, so I'll have a tray sent up fer ye in a bit."

"Thank you, Clara." Breakfast had consisted of a bowl of warm pottage, and that had been many hours ago. As soon as the door closed, Varel turned to the captain to impart the bad news. "Rullens, Hadrian was ambushed by darkspawn not too far from the North Road. If we had not caught up to him in time, he would have been dead."

Rullens rocked back in his chair, his eyes wide with shock. "Darkspawn! And so close to the Vigil!" His brow furrowed. "But they've never been so bold before."

"We knew that was going to change, sooner or later," Varel said, and paused, unsure whether or not he should divulge the fact that darkspawn were drawn to Grey Wardens. He would have to speak to Petrus about that. "Let me tell you what happened..."

The captain's face was set in grave lines once Varel finished telling the tale. "Blast, that's a shame about Mer. Did you tell the kennelmaster yet? Ah, I see from your expression you have." He gave Varel a sympathetic look. "How bad was it?"

Varel winced at the memory of that painful conversation. "Bad enough. I spent most the journey back in dread of having to tell the man one of his dogs had died."

Rullens shook his head. "First one of Maric's Shield's best dogs dies taking down the slaver mage, now Mer. I'm starting to see an unfortunate trend here, Varel."

"Andraste's ashes, don't say that," Varel said with a wince, though he had noticed it, too.

"In any case, I'll need you to write up a report for me to put in the log."

Varel reached into his belt pouch and took out the wax tablet he had taken to carrying around, because he had been frustrated when there had been none to hand after their raid on the slavers in Amaranthine. "I thought you would, so I already wrote one."

Rullens looked unsurprised as he took the tablet. "Excellent. Now you need to show me on a map where you found the darkspawn - or where they found you, I suppose."

"I don't keep the maps here, but if you would just give me a moment to fetch them -" Varel began to rise but the captain waved him back down.

"I know where they are in the library - I can get them myself. You just came in after riding for hours in the cold, so you should stay here and warm your bones a while."

It was hard to disobey the captain's orders, when the fire had warmed the room enough to be comfortable. Now that Varel was no longer too numb from the cold to feel anything, his skin was tingling all over, making him itch. A servant brought in a tray laden with covered platters of food, a bowl of hot water for him to wash his hands in, and a teapot, which Varel snatched up in a possessive grip first thing. Rullens returned moments later with the map, an entire sheepskin wrapped around a wooden roller, and spread it on the desk, since the table was occupied.

The captain grinned when he saw Varel breathing in the aromatic scent from a steaming cup. "Missed your tea, did you?"

"You have no idea," Varel said as he took a reverent sip. He drained the cup, feeling the hot tea warm him up, and put it down before going over to his desk, lest he spill it on the map. "We need to send some soldiers here and here. The Grey Wardens said we have to burn the bodies so that they do not corrupt the land." He pointed to two spots with his belt knife. "Before scavengers can get to them and grow into tainted monsters."

Rullens shuddered at the thought of tainted crows and vultures. "Maker, yes, I'll make that a priority. It'll stretch us thin, but I think I can safely leave that task to the greener troops, as long as I give them the soldiers you took as guides."

"Plenty of spoils lying around, too, that shouldn't be left for children to stumble over. Make sure they are purified in fire first, though, before you bring them back."

The captain snorted as he wrote down the locations on a wax tablet of his own. "Isn't that always how it is? Piles of loot for the taking, but they're all tainted."

"Considering what had been wearing and using them, it's only sense to clean them thoroughly first. From what I saw, the darkspawn did not take care of their gear at all. And Maker did they stink!" Varel made a face, recalling the acrid stench that had burned in the back of his throat until they had left the bodies far behind.

"I'll be sure to mention that, in case they think of squirreling small pieces away for themselves." Rullens began rolling the map back up. "Speaking of which, why did it take you nearly a sennight to return? Surely Hadrian couldn't have gotten that far in a snowstorm?"

"Someone has been playing cruel tricks on Goodwife Turnoble," Varel said. He washed his hands, then uncovered one of the dishes to find a bowl of thick stew filled with a generous amount of fish chunks and clams. "I wanted to make sure it wasn't some sort of new bandit tactic, so we went around to the freeholds nearby to see whether or not sure she was the sole target. They told me they had been having trouble, too."

Rullens scowled. "What happened? Animals run off? Belongings stolen? Buildings burned down?"

"No, not yet. It's just acts of senseless vandalism right now, but it's just a matter of time before someone goes too far," Varel said, in between bites of stew. "I had hoped to be able to catch them, but they made themselves scarce."

The captain began to look as irate as the housekeeper had earlier. "Why hasn't anyone seen fit to tell me about this?"

"There was a snowstorm, remember? And anyone who could get through the drifts with any speed would be young, which their families are understandably reluctant to send into possible danger."

Rullens grunted. "Wonder if that's why they picked winter to try these tricks," he said, echoing Varel's thoughts of a few days ago. "I don't suppose... you weren't able to track them down?"

Varel spread his hands and shook his head. "The snowstorm wiped out their tracks. Not even Petrus, whom I would swear could track on bare rock, could not find any signs. Nor could Blackfoot."

"A cold trail in every sense. Blast!" The captain took off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "We're training the new recruits as fast as we can, but we can't have them running hither and yon all over the arling after the culprits if we can't find them!"

"I know - I think we'll have to grasp the problem from the other end."

Rullens cocked his head. "Oh? What do you mean?"

Varel put down the empty bowl, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "I couldn't track them down, but I did determine one thing the affected freeholds had in common: they all happen to look to the Vigil for protection."

The captain's eyes narrowed at that. "You suspect the minor nobles are trying to woo the villages and towns that usually look to us for protection?"

"Do you recall that conversation we had some time ago, where you wondered why the nobles hadn't taken advantage of the Warden-Commander's absence to make trouble? They finally bestirred themselves to action - or were pushed to. They never dared to try this when Arl Howe was still their liege lord."

Rullens barked a derisive laugh. "Of course they didn't! I remember when my father told me how he ranted when a good portion of the arling's freeholders declared for Teyrn Bryce when he returned to Highever as a hero after the end of the occupation."

"Yes, I do, too." Varel grimaced at the memory of when Arl Howe had nearly shaken the Vigil apart in his rage - and jealousy, now that he thought about it. That had to have been a tremendous blow to the man's pride. "I thought we'd never hear the end of it. He would've cut them off at the knees, though perhaps not literally."

The other man looked skeptical at that. "I wouldn't be too sure. Anyway, what are they doing? Parading what's left of their troops around?"

Varel nodded. "After every incident, a patrol from one or another of the nobles nearby would come to 'investigate'. That would not normally be a problem, except they are not only encroaching on our people, but each other's. Their show troops are fighting against each other when they happen to meet, and I'm afraid that the pushing and shoving may turn into more serious scuffles and fights."

Rullens put a hand on his face. "Oh, for the love of Andraste. And with the freeholders caught right in the middle. Are they really going to pull the old 'nice farm you have here, shame if anything were to happen to it' trick?"

"Leading up to it, I think, otherwise certain farm implements would be put to a use the blacksmith may never have intended. But the fact remains that if we do not put a stop to this nonsense, the freeholders would be well within their rights to stop sending their supplies to us."

"I take it that would affect our reserves?"

"It certainly would, since I never foresaw something like this happening," Varel said with a rueful grimace. "I only accounted for things like bad harvests, storms, floods. The odd dragon."

Rullens gave him an odd look. "You accounted for dragons?"

"Dangerous beasts, dragons, worst than all the rest of the disasters because they don't go away until you kill them." Varel waved the digression aside. "I underestimated the nobles' greed."

"More like you underestimated their stupidity," Rullens said with a shake of his head. "I can't believe they're trying to steal away the Warden-Commander's freeholders. The woman went through all of Arl Howe's soldiers - and the arl himself - like a hot knife through butter. Are they that bored that they would risk her wrath?"

"At least they were smart enough to do it in her absence. But the question I think we should be asking ourselves is: who benefits from this situation?"

"Well, the nobles -" Rullens began, but Varel interrupted him.

"Are now occupied with each other, whatever they may have intended at first. And there's another question: who can afford to send out mischief-makers in the middle of winter?"

The captain opened his mouth, then closed it. "Are you talking about Bann Esmerelle? Maker, are you _really_ accusing _Bann Esmerelle_? Because that's what it sounds like."

"I have no proof, just conjecture, but you must admit it's the most plausible explanation. I've been thinking about little else for nearly a sennight."

The captain looked dubious. "How do you know it's not some noble sending his own people to bother his rival's?"

"I don't think they would risk someone recognizing them if they were caught," Varel said. "None of the other nobles would have any sympathy for him, and the affected party might well petition the Warden-Commander in Denerim to levy some punishment upon him. Bann Esmerelle has a ready supply of dupes to draw on from the camp outside the city, and it would not be hard to find and persuade a few desperate folks to do her bidding in exchange for a bit of coin. When there is a daily risk of either starving to death or dying of exposure, the average refugee would see they have no choice at all."

"And it's so much easier to accuse a shifty-looking stranger than a local," Rullens said, looking unhappy. "Well, you're not usually wrong about these things, but whether you're wrong or right, I don't see that there's anything we can do about it - the damage has been done. The nobles are squabbling amongst themselves, and at the same time, we're being discredited and made to look like incompetent fools."

"Not just us - the Warden-Commander, too, and by extension the Grey Wardens." Varel poured himself another cup of tea to wash the bad taste out of his mouth. "Now that I think on it, Bann Esmerelle might have planned it that way. Not only does it distract us, it set her potential rivals against each other, with all of them competing for her favor and support in the inevitable petitions that would follow." Unless he could somehow nip her plans in the bud.

"And she's made no secret of the fact that she thinks _she_ ought to have gotten the arling."

"Well, we can't let them get away with this," Varel said. "We need the freeholders as much as they need us. We can't afford to lose their support."

"How? Show of force? That won't impress anyone if there's no one there to see it. And we're stretched thin, Varel, dangerously thin." The captain sighed. "Just sending patrols is no good, since that hasn't stopped people from pulling these tricks. If we march them around the farms, then we'd neglect the roads. I don't suppose you could talk sense into the nobles...?"

Varel snorted at hearing that wistful fantasy. "They won't listen to me without the threat of the Warden-Commander hanging over them. It's like trying to herd cats at the best of times."

"Then what can we do?" Rullens gripped the edge of his helmet, his fingers flexing as though he wanted to throw it on the floor. "As if the darkspawn weren't enough -"

Varel looked up from his cup of tea, Rullens's words startling him out of his gloom. "That's it!"

"What?"

"How much would someone have to pay you to sneak about in a darkspawn-infested forest? At night? With no protection if you are caught?"

Rullens looked bemused at the sudden turn in the conversation, but went along with it. "A great deal. A very great deal indeed. But what are you getting at?"

"I'll send a messenger around to all the nobles, informing them about the darkspawn attack," Varel said, the words coming out slowly because he was thinking fast. "Not only that, I will also have the town criers spread the news in the city."

"I would've thought you wouldn't want to start a panic."

"We would never be able to hide this, Rullens! There were three soldiers who came with me, as well as the Grey Wardens, and of course I had to tell Goodwife Turnoble what we were doing on her land so late at night. The gossip is already flowing. Slowly, to be sure, because it is winter, but it will spread."

"You're saying the nobles will have to stop their nonsense in order to protect themselves from the darkspawn," the captain said, his expression lightening as he thought it through. "Hopefully protecting their freeholders at the same time."

"Well, the only times they have ever worked together were when they were faced with an outside threat. With any luck, the news will reach the ears of the people pulling these pranks, and scare them off." With his stomach no longer knotted with uncertainty, Varel removed the cover from the last plate to find slices of mutton in gravy, now gone a bit cold, which he placed in a loaf he cut lengthwise.

"Too bad we have to burn the darkspawn bodies - putting their heads on pikes would be a good reminder. But we can't risk it," Rullens said. "Are you sure that would be enough to keep the nobles out of our hair?"

Varel swallowed a bite before he could speak. "Send a few patrols down that way for a while, and make sure they're visible." He paused as a thought struck him. "I might have to go myself and talk to them, I think, because I'm not sure they suspect Bann Esmerelle's meddling."

Rullens looked alarmed. "Surely you're not going to accuse her in front of their faces?"

"No, no, I'll just hint at that. Their focus tends to narrow when someone tries to steal away their freeholders, is all, and I'm not sure they would suspect anyone other than their nearest rivals. The smarter ones will realize they are leaving their flanks exposed, and act accordingly."

"We can hope." The captain looked at his notes, then back up at Varel. "You know, it wouldn't hurt to ask one of the Grey Wardens to accompany you. It would lend your news about the darkspawn some credibility."

"That's a good idea. I can ask."

Rullens tapped his stylus against his lips and unrolled the map again. "Show me which freeholds I should have the patrols concentrate on."

Varel put down the bread and walked over to his desk, studied the map, and traced a circle around the symbol for the Vigil with his finger. "Here, the freeholds in this area around the Vigil look to us, and I can give you a list."

"That would help. I had no idea there were that many who looked to us," Rullens said, making more notes in his tablet.

"It takes a lot of supplies to keep the Vigil running smoothly. I suspect more may declare for the Warden-Commander when she arrives, at least until the shine wears off."

Rullens snickered. "Oh, that's going to have the knickers of some of the nobles in knots."

Varel wondered if history was repeating itself. When Teyrn Bryce had returned like a conquering hero to Highever after the rebellion, there had been an enormous uproar when many of Amaranthine's freeholders had wanted to join him, which would have greatly increased his teyrnir - at the expense of Howe's arling. Now his daughter was going to take charge of the whole arling, not just a portion, and he had no doubt there would be some sort of fuss kicked up over it. He did wish she was here to deal with it instead of him.

Rullens closed the lid on his tablet. "Let me know when you plan to head out so that I can scrape together a proper escort for you and arrange the schedule so that either I or Garevel will stay behind to hold the fort." He looked up from his notes with a concerned expression when Varel did not reply. "What? What is it?"

Varel gave the other man a mournful look. "I'm going to have to report all this to the Warden-Commander."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have an excuse for not updating for a month, except that I was distracted by shiny video games I got on sale. Also, in order for me to come up with a clever solution for Varel to unveil, I have to think it up first.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel is on his way home after spending a fortnight convincing nobles to do their jobs.

Varel hated riding with a passion. Some of the sentiment was due to the occupation, when horses had been inextricably associated with Orlesian oppressors, but most of it had to do with the undignified scramble he had to conduct to get on and off, the fact that just because he could stay in a saddle did not mean he could fight on it, and the uncomfortable, pervasive feeling his horse could dash his brains out against a tree if it ever took a fancy to the notion. He felt as graceful as a sack of flour, and knew he looked it, too. It was the only duty as seneschal he disliked.

But there was no help for it; while riding so badly detracted from the dignity of his position, it would look worse to arrive on foot, especially since all the snow was finally melting into discolored piles of slush. He had no intention of turning up on anyone's doorstep with mud splattered to the thighs like a supplicant. It was important to keep up appearances, though there was no real need now, for he had just finished visiting the nobles around the Vigil for the past fortnight.

As he had feared, the nobles had been distracted by the troubles plaguing their freeholders, so he had to play the concerned yet respectful official bringing the bad news - and one with no power to force them to action. Now that they were about a mile away from Ser Timothy's estate, he felt they had gone far enough for him to safely roll his eyes. Maker, it felt good to be done with stroking the nobles' egos in order to get them to _listen_ to him about the darkspawn - and he hoped he managed to spur them to _do_ something about it.

The nobles were so predictable, it had gotten so that he had laid private bets with himself as to when some lord or lady would trot out the latest disagreement they had with one or more neighbors. Inevitably, old feuds that boiled down more or less to what Lord Such-And-Such said about Our Lady Grandmother three hundred and fifty-five years ago were dredged up, because some families cherished their old grudges and passed them down along with the salt cellar.

Varel had plenty of practice in keeping a straight face during their rants, and in gently steering the conversation back to the subject at hand. When he had suggested that perhaps someone else other than their usual mortal enemy and nemesis could be responsible for the pranks played on their freeholders, some of the nobles, especially the ones who were more than a bit long in the tooth, had reacted with complete and utter bafflement, as if the thought had never crossed their minds.

Not for the first time Varel wondered if the ancestors of these nobles had been elevated more for their fighting ability than their wits. It would explain such a lot. He could handle those old battleaxes, be they ever so narrow-minded, but he would have to take care not to assume they were all like that. Lord Eddelbrek and Ser Tamra were sharp enough to understand the implications without Varel's prodding, and he suspected trying that tactic with someone like the Warden-Commander would be more dangerous than poking a sleeping dragon in the snout with a stick.

At least it was a nice day for the trip back home. Spring was here at last, even if the signs were subtle and ephemeral, because winter still had its claws sunk deep in Ferelden. There was a hint of warm moisture in the cold air, when he had gotten used to the dryness, green buds were peeking through the snow-covered branches like shy maidens, and a few flights of birds were crossing the sky in arrowhead formations, returning from the north. The part of the Hafter River that wound around the Vigil was no longer solid enough to walk on, and the sudden noises of the ice breaking had startled the newest recruits on sentry duty. He smiled, recalling one of them saying it had sounded like the biggest chestnuts in the world exploding in a fire.

The warming weather would, he hoped, bring back trade, merchants, and pilgrims, which would in turn bring in a welcome influx of funds. And once the ice melted on the Hafter River, its flowing waters would power the various mills, float the barges that traveled all along its meandering length, transport timber, and provide mussels and freshwater fish of all sorts.

His smile faded, for with the coming of spring, the treacherous ice floes that were such hazards in the Amaranthine Ocean would soon melt, making it safe - well, safer - for travel on the sea. The Grey Wardens would leave soon, and he realized that he would actually miss them. Even Hadrian, who had not attempted to run away again, and seemed to have buckled down to doing his duty.

"It is because he saw darkspawn for the first time," Petrus had said when Varel mentioned the newest Grey Warden's seeming change of heart. "After the Joining, we Grey Wardens feel most keenly the... the essential _wrongness_ of the darkspawn. We recognize in our hearts that these twisted, soulless monstrosities must be taken out of the world, that we have a duty to do so, a drive that can only be partly explained by the ritual. The tradition of the recruiter taking the recruit off to kill darkspawn in order to fetch their blood serves more than one purpose."

Varel could not argue with that, when it made his skin crawl to know there were thousands, perhaps millions, of those creatures in the Deep Roads. Though it had been harrowing at the time, he was glad they had killed the ones drawn to Hadrian, that there were that much fewer of them wandering about in the world.

"How useful do you think the nobles' troops would be, if they had to fight darkspawn?" Varel said to Petrus, who was riding his horrible little horse beside him. That ugly nag was the Void on four legs, but even though it always behaved when Petrus was riding it or near it, Varel always kept a close watch on the vicious beast.

Petrus waved his hand before him in an uncertain gesture. "It depends on how well they will listen to Fiona's advice, and the quality of their leadership, which is not something I can discern in a mere few hours. In a fortified position, if they can keep their heads and prevent their troops from panicking, they have a good chance of surviving."

On Petrus's acerbic advice, and with Varel's gentle but insistent persuasion, the nobles had agreed to send an officer or two from their household troops - what was left of them - to the Vigil, where Fiona could teach them how to prevent darkspawn corruption if they had to fight the creatures. If they were smart, they would be able to see past their prejudice and listen, and if they were not, Varel planned to be on hand to make sure they were at least polite, if they could not treat an elf with respect.

"I have noticed that the number and quality of soldiers varies a great deal from one noble to the next."

"Some are better equipped than others, it's true," Varel said. "Nobles like Lord Eddelbrek and Bann Esmerelle can field more troops than minor ones like Ser Timothy, who can only afford to outfit himself and perhaps a dozen others, who have other occupations when not on duty."

"The farms I have seen are not very defensible." Petrus looked disapproving, but then Varel had been told they were always on guard against darkspawn in the Anderfels; he supposed they built everything, from the barn to the privy, with defense in mind.

Varel nodded agreement. "That is why the nobles command from castles and forts - their freeholders have shelter in the event of an attack."

Petrus grunted. "Not much use if the darkspawn attack suddenly, as they did when we searched for Hadrian."

Varel winced, for the farmers and crafters, especially the ones in the more remote areas, would stand no chance at all. "True, but it's the best solution we have been able to come up with."

"Correct me if I am wrong, but just as the nobles may ask help from their liege lord - well, lady in your case - can you not petition in turn? I forget who you look to -"

"Teyrn Fergus Cousland, who now governs the teyrnir of Highever," Varel said, nodding to the west. "It would not be fitting for me to ask him for help - only the Warden-Commander could make that decision. Only under very specific circumstances, such as wartime, and if the commander were slain in battle, could I do that. The teyrn, in turn, takes just as much care in making requests." His lips quirked. "I may have mentioned Fereldan nobles are a touchy bunch."

"Because asking for help would be seen as a weakness?"

Varel nodded. "Appearances are important; I would not want to jeopardize the order's presence here. The Grey Warden rebellion may have happened two centuries ago, but it set an unfortunate precedent. People will be watching the commander; she will have to step carefully, and in turn, so must I. I imagine it is very different in the Anderfels, where the order's reputation was never so besmirched, and the people see you as heroes."

Petrus conceded that it was. "Of course, that is the only comfort we have. Darkspawn are a familiar danger, and we never dismissed them as myths as other countries did after the Fourth Blight. It is easy to imagine them gone forever when the last sighting was centuries ago."

"How have you coped?"

"The farms are built like small fortresses, and there is always a sentry on duty, who will blow a horn if they spot the enemy. Of course, the darkspawn have a much harder time hiding out on the steppes." 

"And then what? Wait for the darkspawn to get bored and go away?" Varel winced, imagining the darkspawn wreaking havoc on crops and animals.

"The farmer would have to fight them off, and pray they run out of arrows before the darkspawn do. In truth, few farms are so isolated that they stand alone; often farmers and their families will band together, like one of your freeholds, in order to pool their resources towards building something that can withstand darkspawn attacks."

"What about those who herd beasts?" Varel thought of how stupid sheep were at the best of times, and shook his head at their probable reaction to darkspawn. If they behaved like their horses had upon their first encounter with the darkspawn, he could not see how a shepherd could possibly round them all up, much less get them pointed in the right direction.

"Darkspawn do not need to eat, and would not bother trying to catch sheep or cattle. The corruption they spread is the greater danger by far, and because of it our beasts do not grow as large or fat as those in other nations, miscarry or bear stillborn offspring, or are barren." Petrus sighed. "And then again my country is poor, much of it scarred by great conflicts with the darkspawn, and not like to ever recover. You are most fortunate that Ferelden was spared much of that when the Blight ended after only a year."

Varel doubted that gave any comfort to the southern nobles, the ones whose lands had taken the brunt of the horde's initial onslaught. "The Blight may have ended, but the darkspawn are still here."

Petrus scowled, as if he took the reminder as a personal insult. "I know. And I have not been able to determine _why_."

"Could it be related to the shortness of this Blight?" Varel was probably wrong, but he kept thinking of forces amassing, of how the groups furthest from the conflict always had the longest distance to traverse. "Perhaps these are parts of the horde that arrived too late, and now that they are here, they lack the direction to turn back?"

"It is true the darkspawn have to walk just like the rest of us. They can no more resist the calling of the archdemon than we could stop breathing." Petrus looked thoughtful, then his shoulders slumped a little. "But whether your guess is right or not, they are here now. Perhaps the Wardens from Orlais will have better luck. Have you heard when they will arrive?"

"Cloudreach, ser, or thereabouts."

The Grey Warden frowned. "Does it take that long to travel from Orlais?" he said, not realizing Varel had asked that question of Ser Cauthrien a few months ago.

"Travel through the Frostback Mountains can be hazardous at the best of times, and in winter doubly so. The Avvarian hillmen take advantage of the cover of storms to raid, but they are very much the lesser danger compared to nature's wrath. Sudden blizzards, avalanches, rockslides - the list goes on and on. I suspect politics might have something to do with the delay, as well."

"Oh?"

Varel's grimace was rueful. "I do not know if anyone informed you, but Teyrn Loghain, the general of the Fereldan army - before his fall from grace - refused to allow Orlesian Wardens and chevaliers to enter the country. I think he feared they would be the spearpoint of an invasion to retake Ferelden."

"Unfortunately, there is precedent, so his fears were not groundless," Petrus said, making a face. "It happened after the Third Blight, when the armies Orlais and Tevinter sent to fight the darkspawn turned on the Free Marches. Orlais took Nevarra, and the Imperium took Hunter Fell, though both city-states fought them off and regained their independence years later. All that blood spent in the name of conquest, and what does either country have to show for it?"

"Teyrn Loghain fought in the rebellion, and before that he suffered under Orlesian rule, as did most of us," Varel said. "So apparently he also sent an insulting message to the Empress of Orlais in addition to barring passage to her troops, for which we may now be paying the price. The Crown cannot even call her out on it, because Loghain was the first to offer insult, and because it truly is safer to travel in the spring."

Petrus looked disgusted. "Fiona mentioned this to me, but I find talk of foreign politics tedious at best. I can barely tolerate it at home." He heaved a sigh. "Well, I will do my poor best for you."

Varel knew the Grey Warden blamed himself for not finding any clues as to what was compelling - driving - the darkspawn to invade the surface. Since the darkspawn ambush, the creatures had become elusive once more, leaving only tracks for Petrus to puzzle over. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold went up Varel's spine at the thought that they might not have gone to ground on their own, that something may have pulled them back deliberately.

"Even with Hadrian's help, you can hardly patrol the whole arling by yourself, ser. Spring may be just around the corner, but it is still impossible for even your horse to safely travel to the nearest Deep Roads entrance."

"It seems to me it is futility itself to gallivant about the place in the hopes I will somehow stumble over them," Petrus said with a fierce scowl. "That sort of thing only happens in minstrels' tales. Though it goes against my nature, perhaps I should turn my attention to defense. The Vigil's walls and fortifications, for instance, seem, er..."

"Neglected?" Varel finished for him with a rueful smile. "I know it, ser. The late arl spent his energies - and resources - on his treasonous schemes. I informed the Warden-Commander of this a while ago, and in her latest letter she promised to send a stonemason, as well as a blacksmith, but they will not arrive for another month or so."

"That is well, then," the Grey Warden said with approval.

Varel was less sanguine; since she had not also promised to pay them beforehand, the unspoken implication was that he would have to come up with the money somehow. He still did not have full access to the Vigil's accounts, though a letter from the Denerim branch of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild Bank, bearing her seal, had authorized him to draw a bit more than the bare pittance he could tap before. The Warden-Commander trusted him, but not to that extent yet - and he could not blame her, much though it chafed him. At least he still had their profits from the slaver raid in reserve. There were days when he felt more like a bit-pinching, straitened housewife than anything else.

Varel looked to the west of the Vigil again, where he had seen two plumes of black smoke rising a sennight ago on a clear, windless day, evidence of the darkspawn corpses being burned. If the spoils from the darkspawn ambush could be repaired after they had been purified in fire, the sale of those arms and armor would add a bit of padding. He was glad also to hear that the charcoal burner, whose hut Hadrian had taken brief refuge in, had been found alive, for he had gone to stay with relatives for Wintersend.

Turning to the Grey Warden, Varel said, "By your leave, I would like to visit a few freeholds to see if they are still having trouble with malicious pranks."

"I have no objection." Petrus raised an eyebrow. "Do you think your schemes have borne fruit?"

Varel shrugged. "I don't know; that is what I would like to find out. The town criers have been spreading the news in the city for nearly a fortnight, and the messengers I sent should have done the same for the freeholds."

"Do you think the news will cause a panic?"

"Perhaps, but better I give them the truth than have them rely on nothing but rumor. It is all too easy for people who have been cooped up for the winter months to work themselves into a frenzy. I fear the damage has already been done."

Petrus raised his brows in surprise. "What do you mean? Did you not redirect the nobles' attention back to their duty?"

"I was only able to do that by appealing to their self-interest - I did not command them." _Could_ not.

"And the Warden-Commander would not have to resort to the same?" The Grey Warden snorted. "You keep telling me how independent and fractious your nobles are."

It was probably futile, but Varel tried to explain his misgivings to a man who had just professed to hate politics. "Our arlessa is supposed to be here to take them in hand. On their best days, I think the nobles know that the arl or arlessa is set above them because they can see more important issues than their own narrow concerns. Of course, most of the time they resent their liege lord for it, which is why it is not good to leave them to their own devices for long."

The Grey Warden's lips quirked in a cynical smile. "Or they might get ideas? Or possibly delusions of grandeur?"

"Something like that, yes. In any case, there is bound to be trouble about it later."

"Trouble _always_ comes, sooner or later," Petrus said, rolling his eyes. "Usually sooner."

"True enough, ser."

Varel chose a large village close to the Vigil to be the first to investigate. An hour's easy trot brought them to the gates of Haftend, which as the name implied was built on the Hafter River. Petrus's nose wrinkled as the wind brought the smell of smoking fish, but they soon moved past the smokehouse on their way towards the inn at the center of the village. Few people were outside, preferring to stay near their hearths, but Varel saw some taking advantage of the sunlight to work on mending nets, plaiting rope, or patching sails despite the cold, who stopped to stare at the visitors.

There was a long line of barges pulled up or on blocks to keep them out of the ice; most were covered with canvas to protect them from the elements, but some were being repaired, judging from the industrious sawing noises down there. At the sounds of approaching hoofbeats, Varel motioned the rest of his group to the side of the road as two ponies, shaggy with winter coats, drew past them with a cart loaded down with what looked like blocks under a canvas tarp, probably ice being transported to the cold cellars of nearby freeholds. The driver waved at them; Varel gave him an amiable nod back.

"Where are we going?" Petrus said as he looked about in interest.

"The inn - the headman owns the place," Varel said. He reined in his horse in front of the only building in the village that had two floors, and dismounted. The rest of the party followed suit. Petrus kept a firm hand on his mount's halter, lest it menace its fellows.

A boy trotted out from around the corner of the large building, and paused at the sight of them. His eyes went wide as he took in their weapons and armor, and kept a respectful distance. "Will ye be stayin' here, sers?" 

"No, I just need to have a brief word with Headman Conall," Varel said. "Is he about?"

The child seemed to relax a little. "M' da's inside. Want me ta take care of yer horses?"

Varel glanced up at the position of the sun, then at Petrus and his escort of four soldiers, who all looked pinched from the cold. They might as well have a hot meal in the warm before continuing their journey, and there was no point in making the horses stand out in the chill while they ate. "All right, but we're not staying long."

The Grey Warden took the reins of two more horses; the boy took the rest and led the way to the stables while Varel and the other soldiers walked up the steps, stamped off the worst of the mud on a mat set out for the purpose, and went into the inn. A few people inside nursed tankards of ale, locals judging from their clothes, stared at them with curiosity. Varel's stomach growled at the scent of cooking food.

A big, burly man with a club foot limped over to them, his broad smile flashing like light on water in his dark, weathered face. "Well, well, Varel! Didn't expect ta see ye makin' t' rounds 'til spring." His smile faded a little. "Ye here on business?"

Varel made haste to reassure the man. "Yes, but it is nothing urgent. I was hoping you might have time for a chat."

The headman relaxed. "Oh, sure, 'tis winter and business be slow. Will ye be needin' rooms?"

Varel shook his head. "We are only staying long enough for that talk and a hot meal. Your son already took our horses to the stables."

Conall beamed. "If 'tis a hot meal ye're lookin' fer, ye came ta t' right place! Sit, sit! I'll wager ye'll be wantin' somethin' that'll stick ta yer ribs before ye go back out onna day like this!"

They took over a whole table by the fireplace, where they could put their weapons in a corner. Some moments later, Petrus, smelling of horse and hay, stumped in and joined them.

"What do you have on tap, Conall?"

"Fresh bread, stew - mutton or pork, pottage, pickled lamprey but no lamprey pie - I knows how ye like it - on account of t' chickens not layin' yet."

Varel dickered a bit with the headman over the price for form's sake, managing to take a bit off because the soldiers were not from Amaranthine, and were thus not familiar with the lamprey. He ended up being the only one who selected it, while the others preferred to stick to foods they recognized. After a short wait, another boy brought out a pitcher of ale and their meals, but Varel had to stop the others from eating when Petrus pressed his hands together and murmured a quick grace.

"Would you like to try some?" Varel said when he caught the Grey Warden staring at his dish.

"What _is_ it?"

"A type of eel-like fish that lacks scales, a jaw, and proper bones. Do you not have lampreys in the Anderfels?"

Petrus shook his head. "Weisshaupt Fortress is far from the sea and any river."

"Then here, try some." Varel speared a piece and put it on the Grey Warden's trencher.

A dubious expression on his face, Petrus poked at the slice of pickled lamprey with his belt knife, as if expecting it to bite back, but the rest of the soldiers did not hesitate to tuck into their stew. It did not take long for them to finish their meals, for the cold and the rigors of the journey had added an edge to their hunger.

"Well, what do you think?" Varel said when Petrus finally mustered the courage to put the pickled lamprey in his mouth instead of studying it.

Petrus looked bemused as he tasted it, his expression suggesting he did not know whether to swallow it or spit it out. He finally decided to swallow it, and chased it with a large gulp of ale. "Very, er, chewy. The brine imparted an interesting sour and salty flavor."

"It's an acquired taste."

"I do not think it is a taste I will look to acquire in the future. No offense."

"None taken," Varel said, suppressing a smile at the hint of rue he heard in Petrus's voice. He dismissed the soldiers to prepare their mounts; after they and the Grey Warden left, he caught the headman's eye.

"So, d'ye need a private room for our talk?"

Varel shook his head. "A quiet corner will do."

Conall jerked his chin at the bar. "Go help m' boy with t' horses," he told the bartender, who nodded and came out from behind the counter, giving them room and privacy. The headman limped to the bartender's place, squinted at a tankard, and began polishing it with a rag.

Mindful of the listening ears of the other customers, Varel leaned his elbows on the counter and lowered his voice. "Have you heard about the darkspawn sighting near Goodwife Turnoble's farm?" 

The headman nodded, though he looked skeptical. "Aye, I heard somethin', but I don't know if I believe it. Folks said they saw lotsa smoke over that way, later. Hope she's all right."

"It's true. I was there. I even fought off some of them. After I returned to the Vigil, I had to send out soldiers to burn the darkspawn bodies, which is why people saw smoke in that direction."

The other man's brows flew up, and his eyes widened. "Well, now, ye ain't no liar, Varel, so even if 'tis hard ta believe ye, I gotta believe ye."

"Have you or any of your people seen them around here?"

Conall shook his head. "I would've heard if they had. We be close enough ta t' Vigil that t' patrols come by all t' time. What should we do if we do see their ugly faces?"

"Report it at once to the Vigil, or to a patrol."

"Huh." The headman gave him a sharp look, as if wondering what the Vigil's soldiers could possibly do about it. He could not know Varel was having the same thought.

Varel hurried to change the subject. "Have you heard about the cruel tricks being played on the farmers?"

Conall scowled and set the tankard down with a thump. "Aye, and ain't just farmers havin' trouble. Someone poked holes in some of t' barges, fishin' lines tangled up or cut, and me hay was dumped all over t' loft. Took a whole day ta get t' mess cleaned up. If I ever catch t' bastards what done it, I'd give 'em a right good thumpin'." He cracked the knuckles of his huge hands. Despite his club foot, the headman had worked on barges much of his life, and still retained a good deal of his strength even in his retirement. Anyone he managed to catch would soon be very, very sorry.

"How long has that sort of thing been going on?"

The headman scratched his head, then counted on his fingers. "A fortnight, maybe? No, three weeks. Funny thing, though, it stopped a sennight or so back. Someone'd be complainin' about somethin' bein' broke or thieved at least once a day, but for a while no one's hollered like a stuck pig. Don't know what ta make of it."

"Hm, interesting." Varel wondered if that was when the mischief makers had heard about the darkspawn. "Has anything else of note occurred?"

Conall screwed his face up in thought. "Well, I don't know... oh! Some monsters chased Egan away when he went ta gather some wood." He snorted. "Said 'twas a whole horde of 'em, howlin' like all t' demons of t' Fade were after him, but I'd lay bets 'twas only one or two, or he'd be dead. Bandits, maybe, or poachers. Or 'twas a badger."

"Not the most reliable sort, I take it."

"Not after he's had a skin or so of beer. All right when he's sober." Anticipating Varel's next question, Conall told him what direction Egan had gone to find wood.

"Thank you. Since it is on our way, I suppose we could go see if we can find any tracks."

Conall snickered. "Watch out fer badgers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Still no excuse for this long delay between updates, but the muse is fickle, and insists I should write a fic I never intended for a game I've been playing to get over writer's block.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel meets Dalish elves for the first time. They are not exactly pleased to see him.

Petrus seemed amiable enough when Varel suggested the addition to their somewhat spontaneous itinerary after relaying what the innkeep had told him. "I do not think it is darkspawn, but better to make sure."

"Why don't you think it is darkspawn?" One of the soldiers was holding Varel's horse at the mounting block, which Varel used to haul himself into the saddle. The old gelding sighed as he took Varel's full armored weight again.

The Grey Warden looked around and shook his head as he put his helmet back on. "Not enough damage, and no one died."

"Ah." Varel tried to put out of his mind all the disasters the darkspawn could visit upon a small town like Haftend, managing not to wince. He wondered if Petrus had some experience when it came to arriving too late to save something from those monsters.

The wooden palisade surrounding the town sufficed to repel brigands, but he doubted it could stand up to a determined darkspawn assault. And while it was conceivable that the townsfolk could escape on barges, the river was still thawing. Even after the ice was broken up, the current was not so fast that they could get out of bow range without considerable casualties. And what if the darkspawn knew how to make fire arrows?

Varel put on his own helmet, more for the warmth it gave than in the expectation of trouble, and led them out of Haftend and down a path that consisted of trampled snow and melting, dirty slush to the village's woodlot, which the palisade did not enclose. Several sections of trees had been coppiced, leaving a large gap that gave them a good view of the untouched woods beyond. Petrus shook his head at the mess in the dirt, but Varel knew it would be impossible for the other man to distinguish one set of tracks from another, especially when he had never seen Egan's footprints before.

"Ah, here we are," the Grey Warden said as he directed his horse to the edge of the woodlot. He pointed at a set of footprints that meandered away from the others.

There were ditches and high earthen walls that set the boundaries of the woods designated for the village's use; everything else beyond technically belonged to the new arlessa, but it was clear Egan had taken advantage of the ruler's absence and Varel's preoccupation with much more pressing matters to collect wood without paying the fee. Egan's tracks stood out clear enough in the undisturbed snow for even Varel to spot them, so it was easy for the rest of them to follow.

While the footprints leaving the village looked unhurried and straight, what had caught Petrus's attention were the ones returning, and judging from the length between each print, and how they meandered, the man had been in much more of a hurry coming back to Haftend.

Egan had not gone all that far, for they soon came upon the bundle of firewood the man had gathered, now scattered about, as if it had been thrown down in haste. What Varel could not see was what had frightened Egan so, since there were no signs of a struggle, nor the prints of either a humanoid or a beast. There was also nothing as obvious as an arrow still stuck in a tree or in the ground.

"It seems as if he looked back over his shoulder several times as he ran back," Varel said. "But I do not see any signs of anyone or anything chasing him."

Petrus nodded. "From the look of his footprints when he came out of the village, he was sober - enough to walk a straight line, in any case."

The Grey Warden bade them wait with a gesture, no doubt to keep them from muddling the trail, then had his horse walk off the road and into the trees. Other than the crunching of the snow as the beast's hooves sank into it and the creaking of leather as the soldiers shifted in their saddles, there was a profound silence that could only be found in a snow-covered forest in winter.

Like a cat, Petrus peered at things Varel could not see; at times he would inspect the ground, which at least made sense, but then he would stop to look at certain trees for no reason Varel could discern.

Varel eyed the darkening sky and was about to call Petrus when the other man turned his horse and trotted back to them. "Did you find anything, ser?"

"Perhaps. There is a Dalish clan camped nearby. Odd, that - they usually never dare to come so close to a human village."

"A Dalish clan?" Varel glanced around at the still-bare trees, but saw nothing amiss, and certainly no pennants or banners. Did the Dalish even use such things? "How can you tell?"

The Grey Warden gave him an exasperated look. "There are signs, if you know where to look." He nodded at a tree that looked no different from any other. "See that, there? It says, among other things, that there is a safe campsite."

Dutifully, Varel gave the tree a closer scrutiny, then gave up after a few moments. It was a tree, with all the bits he usually associated with trees all accounted for: branches, roots, bark, but no leaves yet. "I don't see it, ser. Sorry."

"No matter," Petrus said with a shrug. "I wonder... could they be the ones who chased this Egan away?"

"I suppose it is possible. The headman said Egan is not a particularly reliable witness, especially after he has imbibed too much beer." Varel could almost feel sorry for poor Egan, though if even half the tales he had heard of the Dalish were true, the man had gotten off lightly.

Petrus looked around again. "I think it is only polite to go speak to them."

"Er, is that wise, ser? I've heard the Dalish can be quite savage in the defense of their camps." Varel glanced back at their escort, townsmen all, who would be of little help in the woods. For that matter, Varel himself would be useless, as well. The elves could turn them all into pincushions in less than ten heartbeats if they so chose.

"You're gonna talk to the Dalish? They're no better than beasts, ser!" one of the soldiers said as he peered nervously around at the woods, as if expecting elves to come swooping down on him from the trees at any moment.

Petrus raised a brow. "They are actually quite reasonable as long as you do not attack them or encroach upon their camps without permission." He paused. "Of course, they have little cause for forbearance and rarely grant it."

Varel frowned at the soldier who had spoken up. "Considering how badly we humans treat elves, as revealed by such rude remarks, that is hardly a surprise." He turned back to the Grey Warden. "How will you contact them?"

"How else? By knocking on their door. So to speak. Come, this way." With a jerk of his head, Petrus had them follow him off the road and further into the woods, where their horses slowed so that they could avoid the roots and other obstacles hidden under the snow.

They had gone perhaps a mile, pausing a few times while they waited for Petrus to examine the trees, when a sudden space opened up, one that had been left by a fallen tree that had knocked down several of its fellows.

Petrus dismounted and said to the empty - or empty-seeming - forest, " _Ara seranna-ma_. I am a Grey Warden, and I wish to speak to your Keeper or your _hahren_." Varel noted the other man was careful to keep his hands away from his weapons. The forest absorbed the words into a waiting silence and returned nothing.

"What will you do if no one answers the door?" Varel said, using the Grey Warden's own metaphor.

The Grey Warden snorted. "We continue on our journey. What else? I have no more desire than you do of being skewered with Dalish arrows, which is what will happen if I try to enter their camp uninvited."

"You are well informed - for a shem."

Varel and the soldiers flinched and whirled towards the direction the voice had suddenly come from, the abrupt motions startling their mounts. They reached for their weapons in sheer reflex; only Petrus remained unruffled. While the Dalish elf, who had appeared as if out of thin air, had his longbow in hand, it was not currently aimed at them, but Varel had no doubt that would change if any of them made a hostile move. And just because there was only one Dalish elf visible, that did not mean he was alone; there were probably a dozen others out there with their lethal bows pointed at them right now, Varel thought, and began to sweat despite the cold.

It was easy to see how they could have missed seeing the elf; he was dressed in armor dyed all in earth tones, with patterns that mimicked tree bark and leaves, with a matching cloak. The trees in this part of the forest were tall, sturdy monarchs of great age, and had never been touched by human hands; a dozen elves could be hiding behind one of their stout trunks.

Petrus simply turned and gave the tattooed elf a measuring look, then a nod; Varel could only admire his imperturbability. " _Andaran atish'an_. I am Petrus, a Grey Warden. I wish to speak to your Keeper, or your _hahren_ , if the Keeper is not available."

The elf paused to consider the question, then gave a grudging nod. "Shem or not, members of your order have always been welcome amongst the Dalish, but we cannot allow so many _shemlen_ into our camp. You may enter, but you may only bring one other."

Varel did not allow his face or voice to betray any of his doubt when he dismounted. "I will accompany you, Petrus."

The Grey Warden raised a brow at him, but did not demur. He turned to the sentry. "Will that do?"

The elf nodded again. "Come, then. It grows late," he said, with the unspoken implication that he wanted them to get out and away their camp as soon as possible.

Varel turned to the soldiers, who had also dismounted. "Stay here and keep your heads down while you wait for us to return."

"We will not be long, perhaps an hour," Petrus said. "The Dalish will not tolerate our presence for long." The elf, who was still watching them from afar, did not dispute the Grey Warden's words.

"Can we at least have a fire?" one of the soldiers said, sounding plaintive. They were no doubt wishing they had stayed back at the inn.

Varel looked a question at the Dalish guard, whose expression, what could be seen of it under the elaborate tattoo, suggested he would not mind letting _shemlen_ stand out in the dark and cold. But while it was obvious the elf would rather they all go away and throw themselves off a cliff, Varel thought he might have a smidgen of sympathy for the horses.

"The horses will grow chilled in this cold," Varel said, when the Dalish did not speak. "Perhaps a small fire?"

The elf looked very put-upon, but after a moment, he sighed and said, "One of my people will show you to a firepit you can use." He whistled, and two more Dalish stepped into view, confirming Varel's guess that there were more of the elves out there; they had also taken up excellent positions to set up a crossfire.

The Dalish looked at them with barely concealed contempt; Varel did not even have to look at the soldiers behind him to know they must be bristling in response. "Stand down, you fools," he said in a low but stern voice over his shoulder. The sounds of weapons being drawn ceased in the guilty silence that followed.

One of the Dalish sentries approached warily, an arrow in one hand and a longbow in the other, and pointed at a small but deep pit that had been dug away from any trees; there was a smaller hole a handspan away from it. "You may light a fire here," she said. Indicating one of the fallen trees, she added, "If you need to piss or shit, do it there, and be sure you cover your waste."

"Do it," Varel said, before any of the soldiers could protest the order - or the source. He handed his reins to one of them; Petrus simply ground tied his own horse. "Eberard, go gather wood and tinder, Sorden, go over there and dig a trench. Gerry and Wedell, you two take care of the horses. And mind your tongues - not to mention your manners."

The first Dalish elf made a curt beckoning gesture and turned without looking to see if they followed, leading them away from the clearing and deeper into the forest. Despite being leafless as yet, the trees grew close enough together that the light began to grow dim, making Varel nervous. The Dalish moved as easily as a man walking around his own home, while Petrus and Varel stumbled over the occasional root or rock.

To Varel's relief, the trees thinned again, and he saw those curious wagons the Dalish used to travel, which looked so much more graceful than the big, blocky ones used everywhere else. He stared in some wonder as pale, deer-like beasts the size of horses wandered about the camp and milled around in a group near the vehicles. They were magnificent creatures, with fantastically carved horns, their winter coats thick but sleek, as if someone had troubled to groom them. Though they roamed where they wished, Varel did not see droppings littering the place. Did someone clear them away, were they used for fuel, or were they smart enough to go to a specific spot to eliminate?

There were more Dalish elves, wearing practical furs, leathers, and wool clothes, not armor, who looked up from their tasks to stare at them with various expressions of curiosity or hostility. Most of them were hostile, and Varel kept his face bland and inoffensive, a skill he had been forced to develop while working for the late arl, and he had a great deal of practice at it. The elves had reason to hate humans; he kept telling himself that as his stomach grew tight with tension. Some even hid their children at the sight of them, as if fearing they would be snatched away, or corrupted just by seeing them.

The camp was not laid out with anything like military precision, but Varel could see it was organized, just in a different way than he was used to. The halla wandered where they would instead of being tied to a picket line, as did dogs, which would not be allowed in a human camp, for they tended to make horses skittish. The slushy piles of snow had been swept away, leaving bare ground, which at least looked neater if not cleaner, and he could not smell any trash or waste. The clearing was not large enough to accommodate all of them, because he could see a few of the wagons among the trees on the far side. Though he could see fires had been set in deep pits, and smell them burning, they were remarkably smokeless. 

The dogs began barking at them as soon as they saw or scented the strangers in their midst, and bounded towards them. They winced at the noise and halted; Varel braced himself, wondering if their masters would allow them to leap upon their unwanted guests, but someone cried out a sharp word he did not understand, and the dogs came to a reluctant stop. There was a hint of a smirk on their guide's face before he turned away, as if he were enjoying their discomfort.

Their Dalish escort led them to the center of the camp, where an elf sat in solitary splendor on a tree stump in front of another fire hole. Varel could not even tell what gender they were, for they were swathed in a voluminous, fur-edged leather cloak embroidered with geometric designs in bold colors, their face hidden in a hood. Beneath the cloak, he could see that, unlike the other elves, they wore robes of a peculiar cut, though they were just as practical as what the rest of the Dalish in camp wore. Their guide bent and whispered into their ear, then made a respectful bow as he was dismissed back to his post.

The elf drew back their hood, revealing an aged woman, whose wrinkled face was marked by the same sort of intricate tattoo the guards had sported, though in a different pattern. Her long white hair had been bound into a myriad of tiny braids, wound into a complicated crown on her head. Despite the staff she used to lever herself to her feet, she held herself up straight and proud. 

" _Andaran atish'an_ , Keeper," Petrus said with a respectful bow.

The elf's tattooed brows rose at Petrus's greeting; Varel thought she looked surprised, but perhaps also pleased. Her gaze was disconcerting in its directness; the elves who lived in the city did not often meet the eyes of humans, for fear humans might see it as antagonism.

Varel could not hope to repeat the foreign words, but he also bowed. He did not recognize the title, but it had to be the Dalish term for their leader. "Good day to you, Keeper."

" _Andaran atish'an_ , strangers," she said, her tone wary yet polite. Despite her age, her voice was strong and clear. She scrutinized them both, before finally settling her gaze on Petrus. "Yes, you have the look of a Grey Warden. I am Ilshae, the Keeper of this clan."

"I am Petrus, a Grey Warden from Weisshaupt Fortress," Petrus said. He gestured at Varel. "This is Varel, the seneschal of Vigil's Keep."

Ilshae gave Varel a nod, as regal as any noble. She gestured at a fallen log across from her own seat, padded with leather coverings. "Please, sit."

At this point in a meeting, wash water and food would have been offered, at least in a normal household, whether rich or poor, but Varel had the feeling none would be forthcoming.

Once they had all sat down, Petrus said, "May I ask where you met a Grey Warden before?"

"By chance, we met another clan nearby who told us that the Grey Wardens had invoked an ancient treaty that called upon the Dalish to help them fight the darkspawn horde," Ilshae said. "So I sent the best hunters I could spare to aid them. That clan's Keeper was new to the position, but young and vigorous, so I stayed behind to guard our combined clans' young and infirm."

Petrus nodded at the wisdom of this. "Did all of your people return safely?"

"Yes, they did." Ilshae breathed a sigh of relief that misted in the air. "The Grey Wardens had them act as scouts and skirmishers, roles well suited to our hunters, though they are more used to fighting in the woods, not in a city. I had feared that they would be placed on the front lines."

"I am glad you honored the treaty." Petrus's lips took on a cynical twist. "You could have let the _shemlen_ fight it out themselves."

Ilshae's face grew pinched. "The Dalish made that grievous error once, and we were nearly destroyed because of it. Make no mistake, Grey Warden, it was simple pragmatism that moved me and my people to help. I have no love for you _shemlen_. None of us do."

Petrus waved this bald sentiment aside with remarkable equanimity. "As long as you fight the darkspawn, Keeper, I do not care what you think of us."

The Keeper opened her hand in acceptance of this dubious endorsement. "A truly interesting attitude you have, Grey Warden."

More amused than offended, Petrus said, "Well, then, now that you have made no secret of your opinion, and I have expressed my indifference to it, why don't you tell me where you met a Grey Warden?"

"I met one of the surviving Grey Wardens after the battle. He is the king now, I'm told." Ilshae did not sound very impressed. "There were four at the battle, but two of them perished fighting the archdemon, and the other was badly wounded."

Varel spoke for the first time during this meeting. "The Grey Warden who was badly wounded, Elethea Cousland, has been named Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and will arrive at Vigil's Keep in the summer to take charge of the arling."

Ilshae's ironic expression seemed to suggest she did not care who came to govern Amaranthine. Before the Blight had descended upon them, it was an attitude she shared with most of the freeholders of the nation, had she but known it, Varel thought. "I hope she will rule wisely."

"That is my hope as well," Varel said in all earnestness. He hesitated, then said, "Has anyone thought to warn you about the darkspawn?"

The elf's wrinkled face twisted into an unhappy frown. "No, but then we actively avoid contact with _shemlen_ , so who would tell us? But now I may have an explanation for why a few of our halla inexplicably sickened."

"Why do you say that?" Petrus said, leaning forward with interest.

"I think the darkspawn may be indirectly responsible for a few of our halla sickening after grazing near an abandoned quarry. They were healthy, not too old or young, and they are too intelligent to eat poisonous plants or mushrooms, so their sudden illness presented me with a distressing puzzle." Ilshae rubbed her face. "That is why we are now camped so close - too close - to a shem village; we must remain here while they recover. I sent my First to find healing herbs, or she would be here to greet you."

Petrus raised his brows. "Finding any herbs at all in winter is a difficult task."

"She is my First for a reason. I have faith in her." Ilshae grimaced. "Though I now wonder whether they will do any good."

"My friend who is staying at Vigil's Keep - her name is Fiona - is a skilled healer and herbalist, with much experience with Blight sickness. I could ask her if she is willing to come take a look at your halla." Petrus paused. "But she is what you Dalish would call a 'round-ear'," he said, his face twisting in distaste.

"What is a 'round-ear'?" Varel said in a whisper to the other man.

"It is what the Dalish call city elves. Too human to be _true_ elves, see."

That explained Petrus's sneer. Varel imagined the other man would have little patience for such sentiments.

Ilshae's expression did not change, nor did she deny it, but she did incline her head. "Thank you for the offer. I would welcome a Grey Warden's expertise, and so will our halla tenders."

"As long as you make her welcome, I will ask her. I can look at them as well, though I have nothing like Fiona's expertise," the Grey Warden said. He made a face, then squared his shoulders, as if about to impart bad news. "I hate being the bearer of ill news, but if your halla have truly contracted Blight sickness and do not recover, they may have to be killed to keep the corruption from spreading, not only to the other halla, but to your people and to the land."

The Keeper looked as pained as if Petrus had told her she might have to kill her own children. "I realize that, Grey Warden. I hope it will not come to that."

"I know also that you bury your dead and plant a tree over their body, but you must burn the halla if they are put down. That is the only way we know to cleanse the corruption." The Grey Warden made an apologetic gesture. "I know it goes against your funeral customs, but it must be done."

Ilshae nodded. "That much I knew. I will, as always, do what is necessary to protect the clan."

"In the meantime, I suggest you keep a sharp eye out for darkspawn, and tell your people to be alert while they are in the forest." Petrus pointed to the north. "We fought off a large group of them not far from here, some weeks ago."

The Keeper's brows drew down. "I thought the darkspawn fled back to their underground lairs once the archdemon was slain."

Petrus scowled at the reminder. "Yes, well, that seems not to be the case this time."

"An ill omen indeed. Thank you for bringing this warning." Ilshae cast a worried eye over the camp. "As if we did not have troubles enough."

"You are willing to endanger your entire camp for a few halla?" Varel said in some disbelief. The Dalish had no physical protections but the vigilance of their sentries, their bows, and their woodscraft. They had no place to make a stand. If they had to run, they would be slowed down by the ones too sick to escape.

The Keeper looked offended. "We would no more abandon a sick halla than we would a sick child. Did you think they are like your horses? They have minds of their own, and they go where they will - they are our guides and companions, not beasts of burden."

"Why not leave the affected halla here, with attendants, while you move camp?" Petrus's lips quirked. "I'm sure you are not happy that two _shemlen_ know of your camp's current location. It should not be difficult to construct a shelter that can protect them from the cold and the elements."

Ilshae gave Petrus a dry look. "You are correct in your guess, though it is clear to me you know nothing of halla, if you think the herd can be parted so easily. Their mates, children, and siblings are already upset because I had to separate them."

There was a challenging look in Petrus's eyes. "If they are as intelligent as you say, surely you will have no difficulty convincing them."

The Keeper did not look so certain, but did not voice her concerns. "When do you think you will return with your friend?"

Petrus turned and raised his brows at Varel. "Well? You wanted to investigate what had chased that villager out of the woods, and you mentioned needing to make several other stops before we returned to the Vigil."

Varel wondered what the Grey Warden was getting at, for the man hardly needed Varel's permission if he wanted to return to the Vigil in order to consult with Fiona. "That was before we learned of the sick halla," he said, glancing at the Keeper. "It is obvious to me that we must change our plans, so we should return to the Vigil at once and inform Fiona; my visits to the other villages can be postponed in light of this more urgent matter."

Ilshae looked a little stunned, though it was little enough. "You have no reason to help us." She seemed to be regretting her earlier blunt words, though that could have been Varel's imagination.

Varel chose his words with care. "I know you have ample reason to see us as enemies; there is a long history of humans perpetrating all manner of atrocities and crimes upon your people. But though I am a shem, as you call me, that does not mean I should contribute to those dishonorable acts."

The Keeper was silent for a long moment. "Thank you."

"I realize time is of the essence," Varel said, "but might I ask if your people chased away a man from the nearby village who went into the forest to gather wood?"

Ilshae nodded. "Yes, one of our sentries mentioned the incident. We do not want random _shemlen_ to stumble into our camp, so our guards have orders to drive strangers away - preferably without violence or revealing themselves." Her lips twitched. "It was not difficult in this case, apparently, since the shem stank of drink."

Varel was glad it was not darkspawn - or something more sinister - that had chased Egan away. "One last question, if you would, before we go: have you seen people sneaking through the woods?"

The Keeper raised her brows. "You mean bandits?"

"I'm not sure." Varel told her of the tricks being played on the villagers, especially those that were isolated. "We think they're hiding in the woods, and they have proved elusive thus far." Of course, if they had been caught and hanged, as farmers were wont to do to hostile trespassers, he would not know about until the news reached him.

"We avoid encounters with _shemlen_ unless they attack us." Ilshae hesitated. "Otherwise, we would not interfere."

Varel was unhappy with that answer, but he supposed it was too much to hope the elves would bestir themselves to help _shemlen_. Why would they lift a finger to help humans? It was a good bet most humans would not help elves. "Thank you for your honesty," he said as he rose.

Petrus also got to his feet, as did the Keeper, with the help of her staff. "How long would it take for us to come back out here, Seneschal?"

After doing a quick mental calculation, Varel said, "No more than three days; two, if we hurry."

Turning back to the Keeper, Petrus said, "Whatever you decide, Keeper, look for us then. Perhaps at the same place your sentry found us?"

The Keeper nodded. "That will do. Thank you, Warden."

Petrus bowed. "Then _dareth shiral_ , Keeper Ilshae."

Ilshae looked bemused by Petrus's command of her language, but said, " _Dareth shiral_ , Seneschal, Warden Petrus."

Varel bowed also. "Farewell, Keeper," he said, managing to bite off the usual _May the Maker watch over you_ , recalling just in time that the Dalish worshipped other gods.

A Dalish guard faded into view as they turned to leave, though the Keeper had given no sign, and beckoned to them to follow without a word. The light was dimmer now, making it harder for them to see the way, and he felt colder, away from the camp's fires. At least this particular elf hid her amusement at their stumbling better than the first.

When they reached the clearing, Varel was relieved to see their escort were huddled around the pit, warming their hands at the fire they had started. The Dalish were nowhere in evidence, but he doubted they were actually gone. He had been worried the soldiers would mouth off to the elves and get themselves in trouble - or worse, in duels. The horses had been unsaddled and hobbled, and were pawing at the slush, trying to find some sort of grazing, while Petrus's beast was actually eating the bark off a tree.

" _Dareth shiral_ ," Petrus said to the sentry, who blinked and returned the courtesy more out of surprise than politeness, and faded back into the trees.

At the sounds of their footsteps, the soldiers jumped to their feet, looking glad to see them. Or just glad that their arrival meant they could leave. "Ser!"

Varel nodded at them. "Any trouble?" They shook their heads. "Good. Get the horses ready - we are leaving at once for the Vigil. Don't forget to fill in the trench."

The soldiers looked confused at the sudden change in plans, but shrugged and went about their various tasks. As they went off, Petrus leaned towards Varel and said in a low voice, "It was good of you to tell the Keeper you will be rushing back to the Vigil."

"Yes, I was wondering about that - why did you insinuate that you needed my help in some way, when you are perfectly capable of returning to the Vigil on your own?"

The Grey Warden snorted. "Would you not insist upon accompanying me?"

Varel frowned in puzzlement. "Well, yes, of course I would. I am responsible for your safety, as I would be for any guest. My point is that you need neither my help nor my permission."

Petrus's eye took on a conspiratorial gleam. "The Keeper does not need to know that."

"But why?" Varel did not think the Dalish could ever be allies, even if they had a common enemy in the darkspawn.

"A little goodwill can go a long way. And if not goodwill, then some forbearance for the next shem to wander near their camp. At the very least, the Dalish are not active enemies."

Varel shook his head; he would not have thought such a stoic man as Petrus could be capable of such optimism. "I doubt such a small gesture will matter in the grand scheme of things."

Petrus picked up his horse's reins and mounted up. "You never know, Seneschal. Now, if we hurry, we might be able to reach Vigil's Keep before nightfall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize again for the lateness of this chapter; there was a death in the family, and I spent much of the last few weeks dealing with the complications that arose.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel realizes he must go to Denerim, but he won't be going alone.

**Cloudreach, 9:31 Dragon**

Varel did not accompany Petrus and Fiona when they set out for the Dalish camp again two days later, but he did insist they take an escort. He was twitchy enough about both of his guests being away from the safety of the Vigil - and out from under his eye - that he wanted very much to accompany them, but there was work for him to do. Rullens and Garevel needed him to hold down the fort, so that they could be free for duties that would take them away from the castle, such as recruiting and training more soldiers. His job, among others, was to figure out how to pay for their upkeep, because they still had to be fed and outfitted, even if they received no actual pay as recruits.

He also needed to turn his attention to preparing the fortress to host the Orlesian Wardens, who would be arriving at some point this month. Unlike the occupiers, they would be here to stay. The thought of it unsettled him, before he shook it off, annoyed with himself. As long as they fought the darkspawn that seemed to be plaguing Amaranthine, their nationality was irrelevant - or, at least, it should be. He suspected it would not be as neat as all that. It never was.

As Varel walked past one of the doors to the great hall, he realized he still needed to have the old banners taken down, and replace them with new ones. The Grey Wardens favored silver and blue, as he recalled from the pennant in front of their Denerim compound, and while the latter color was not too expensive, silver thread was. Could they get away with clever use of gray and white thread?

After checking the inventory ledger, which was not as descriptive as Varel liked, he and Jacob spent much of that day rummaging through the fortress's many storerooms, but though he found many bolts of brown, green, and gold cloth - the arling's colors - they were not appropriate. He came to the unpleasant conclusion that they might have to part with some of their precious store of coin in order to purchase some.

Jacob emerged from under a pile of fabric and fur hides, his rumpled clothes and hair covered with dust. "Sorry, ser, no blue cloth. This is the best I could come up with." He held up a bolt of blue-gray cloth he had taken out of a chest.

Varel sighed and shook his head over the find, which was not the right color at all. "I figured as much. Thank you for helping me today. Now, it's almost time for your lessons, so run along now and clean yourself up."

The boy made a face at the reminder of lessons, but handed over the bolt and left, needing to move sideways in the narrow space between piles. Varel put it back into the chest, and sneezed as he disturbed pungent satchets of moth-repelling herbs. Then it was his turn to try to navigate his way through the teetering heaps without knocking anything over, and sneezed again as his passage disturbed the dust that covered everything in the stuffy little storeroom.

He relocked the door and climbed up the steps, emerging into late afternoon. Spring might be just around the corner, but what remained of the day was still brisk and chill. As he looked at the sinking sun to gauge the time, a flapping cloth up on the battlements caught his attention. It could not be a sentry, for soldiers did not wear cloaks on duty. Curious, he crossed the inner courtyard and went into the keep, glad of the breeze even if it was cold, for the stuffy storeroom lacked windows.

The flapping cloth did indeed turn out to be a cloak, but Varel could not tell who was wearing it from behind. At the sound of his footsteps, the figure - who turned out to be Hadrian - whirled around, a look of abject misery on his face before he hid it away.

"Warden Hadrian," Varel said, giving the other man a polite nod.

Ever since the darkspawn ambush, Hadrian had held himself apart, so Varel had not had much to do with him, busy as he was with his own duties. It was not easy to talk to the man, for Hadrian had lost none of the wariness he had displayed since he became a Grey Warden. Varel understood why he had that particular attitude, considering the awkward circumstances which had led to him joining the order - not to mention the near disaster when he had tried to escape his fate - but it was also getting a tad tiresome. 

"Seneschal." Hadrian gave him a nod back. "Still not used to being called that."

"I suppose you would be more comfortable being referred to as 'Captain Hadrian'?" Varel could not keep all of the dryness out of his voice.

The other man grimaced and looked even more glum than before. "Well, that's all behind me now, isn't it? And once we reach the Anderfels, there's nothing but landlocked Weisshaupt Fortress and plenty of darkspawn to look forward to." He gave the sea such a longing look that Varel wondered if he intended to give the Grey Wardens the slip once they boarded a ship to the Free Marches.

Varel would feel more sorry for the man had he not seen what had happened to the people the slavers had captured. "It's more than your employer is likely to get."

Hadrian opened a hand, conceding the point without actually saying so. It struck Varel as odd that Hadrian did not show more feeling for his lover, who would doubtless hang for his crimes.

"You don't seem too, er, affected by his probable fate."

Hadrian turned a very cynical look at him. "Why? It was just business. Besides, it's never wise to turn down a magister's son, even if he was born on the wrong side of the sheets." His expression suggested it had been a long, tiresome journey to Ferelden.

"Yet I'm told you defended him quite vigorously against a mage and two experienced warriors, despite being taken by surprise."

Hadrian's expression grew scornful. "Wouldn't _you_ fight if armed strangers suddenly barged into _your_ bedroom?" His lips twisted in remembered bitterness. "Fool that I am, I thought he was going to stay and help, but he ran like a coward. If he hadn't sent the guards I always post at my door away... but that's all blood over the dam, isn't it?"

At the sudden light of challenge in Hadrian's eyes, Varel had to concede that it was. Satisfied, Hadrian snorted, then they both had to bend their heads and huddle into their cloaks as a brisk sea breeze blew over them hard enough to rattle their clothes. Hadrian straightened when the wind died down, and winced.

"Are you in pain?" Varel said in concern. If Hadrian had run into bandits or darkspawn while out on patrol, or taken some sort of injury, surely someone would have informed him.

"Just saddlesore," Hadrian said, and grimaced. "I've never ridden before, and now I have to do so much of it. I hate it."

Varel found himself having a bit of sympathy for the other man. "It is not my most favorite activity, either, but I would have thought you'd know how to ride."

Hadrian snorted. "Only the rich can afford to. Surely it is the same in Ferelden?"

"It is. But you have - you had - your own ship, did you not?"

"Ugh. Who in their right mind would ride when they can sail?" Hadrian said, scoffing. Then he sighed. "I'm a commoner, and I worked my arse off for _years_ to get my ship." The Grey Warden brooded over that loss for a moment, then turned on Varel a look of grim amusement. "Do you think everyone in the Tevinter Imperium is rich? Most of the wealth is in the hands of a few: the magisters, of course, the top leaders of the army and navy, and the most prosperous merchant houses."

It was Varel's turn to give the other man a challenging look. "And the slavers, I would imagine."

"Well, yes."

Varel decided he had baited Hadrian enough, and he still had work to do. "The herbalist has a salve that can help with your soreness."

Hadrian bristled and stared at him, as if expecting mockery. On seeing none, he hesitated, then ducked his head. "Thank you. I think I will go ask her now. Excuse me." He gave the sea one last longing look, and turned to leave.

Varel gave the door that Hadrian closed behind him a thoughtful look, then went inside to his office. Without Hadrian to distract him, his disgruntlement returned. He grumbled under his breath, for he had spent an entire day on this fruitless task, and with nothing to show for it.

"Muttering to yourself, Varel? A sure sign of developing madness."

Varel turned to glower at Rullens, who had come up behind him. With the captain was the housekeeper, who stared at Varel in curiosity. "You would be going mad, too, if you were responsible for getting the castle ready for the Grey Wardens."

The captain looked startled. "What? Aren't Fiona and Petrus - oh! You mean the Orlesians arriving at some point this month."

"The _Grey Wardens_ ," Varel said, frowning at the other man. He opened the door to his office and gestured the other two inside. "Not Orlesians."

Rullens dismissed the distinction with an irritable wave of his hand. "You know what I mean. But why do you need to make special preparations? We didn't do anything fancy for Fiona or Petrus."

"Ser Cauthrien told us they were just observers sent from Weisshaupt Fortress, remember? And they told me from the outset that they would be leaving once spring arrives and ships can safely cross the sea. The Grey Wardens from Orlais, on the other hand, will be staying."

Clara scowled at that, for she had her own bitter memories of the occupation, but she was too practical to waste time dwelling on the past. "Then that means t' throne room needs a thorough cleanin'. They gonna stay in t' barracks or up here in t' castle? So's I know ta get t' rooms ready. How many are comin', anyway?"

"They're sending a dozen," Varel said. Considering the scope of the problem, if the darkspawn ambush was anything to go by, a dozen seemed a meager number.

Rullens and Clara sported identical expressions of dismay. "That's all they're sending?" the captain said.

"And it took how many Wardens to stop the civil war and the Blight?" Varel reminded them. "Just four." Though two of them had died in the course of accomplishing such impressive feats.

The housekeeper made a derisive noise. "They're _our_ Wardens. I ain't gonna expect _Orlesian_ Wardens ta be as good."

"Well..." Varel closed his mouth, unable to muster any energy to argue the point. It was not as if he had any liking for Orlesians, either. "In any case, there's nothing we can do about it. A dozen is all we're getting. I don't know where they should lodge yet, Clara, because that's something I need to discuss first with the commander, or the nominal leader of the Orlesian Wardens - I mean, the Grey Wardens." Blast, now she had him doing it.

"I'll get 'em ready anyways," Clara said. "T' queen - I mean, t' king _and_ t' queen - might send people ta watch 'em, ye know."

"Hm, they might, at that," Rullens said, rubbing his chin in thought. "Even if the king is - or was - a Grey Warden, the other nobles aren't going to be happy about Orlesians coming to rule again."

Clara frowned. "But Varel'll still be in charge, right? Whoever they send ta keep an eye on t'Orlesians, they won't try ta push us 'round, will they?"

"I don't know, Clara," Varel said. "Depending on how much authority the Crown gives them, that could happen, and we would have no choice in the matter." Rullens and Clara both made faces at that. "But let us leave that discussion for another day. Were you looking for me?"

Rullens gestured for Clara to go first. "Well, with t'Orlesians comin', I gotta git t' great hall cleaned and all, and t'old banners are still hangin' up there. Do we keep 'em or get new ones?"

Varel grunted. "We must get rid of them, of course. I wasted much of the day looking through the storerooms for cloth in the appropriate colors, but I didn't find any."

"Appropriate colors?" Rullens said. "What are they?"

"Well, the Grey Warden colors are blue and silver," Varel said. "So of course we should use the same. You must have seen the banner in front of their compound when you visited Denerim before?"

"Now that you mention it, yes, though I heard Loghain ordered it to be taken down after that disaster at Ostagar." The captain's brow furrowed. "But are you sure we should be using the actual Grey Warden banners? I know the Crown gave Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens, but the majority of us aren't actually part of the order - I don't think I would be entitled to wear their colors."

Varel scratched his head. "You make a good point. Nothing like this has ever happened, so there is simply no precedent for me to fall back on."

Rullens took off his helmet and cap and rumpled his hair, as if that would help him gather his thoughts. "Then you'll have to talk to whoever is in charge of such things, though I have no idea who they are."

"Oh, that would be the royal marshal in Denerim," Varel said. "Remember that trouble some years back, when one of Lord Bensley's cousins wanted to use something or other on his crest - I forget what - and Lady Packton took offense to it? Arl Howe finally had to call on the marshal to make a ruling in order to shut the both of them up."

"Was that what it was about?" The captain shook his head. "I think I was deployed to the southern border at the time, so I missed it, and when I returned, it grew so garbled in the telling that I couldn't make sense of it. I do regret missing the insults the nobles were hurling at each other."

"What 'bout Petrus?" Clara said. "Wouldn't he know 'bout this sorta thing? Mebbe ye kin ask him."

Varel shook his head. "I think not. He has so little patience for politics that the question would just baffle him. In any case, the royal marshal is the one in charge of all matters pertaining to heraldry."

"Then ye're gonna have ta go ta Denerim and git this all sorted out 'fore t'Orlesians arrive," Clara said. "Ye know, ye oughta check t' markets in Denerim. They just had t' royal betrothal at Wintersend, so they mighta had banners made up fer t' ceremony and t' celebrations."

"What a splendid idea! Thank you, Clara." Varel gave the housekeeper a small bow entirely devoid of mockery. "I think I will do just that."

"Couldn't you send a messenger?" Rullens frowned. "You only just came back after spending three weeks going around to the nobles. I'll have my hands full with training the newest batch of recruits."

"I doubt anyone else can get in to see the royal marshal," Varel said. "She's sure to be fully occupied with the preparations for the wedding in the summer. I hope she's not too busy to see me." He could not afford to cool his heels in Denerim when there was still so much to do.

"If ye must go, then go, and come back quick. Oh, and we're gonna need some other things, too," the housekeeper said as she strode to the door. "I'll git ye a list."

"What? But, Clara -" Varel began, but the door closed before he could protest any further, leaving him glaring at the innocent wood. "Blast it, how does she expect me to pay for it?"

Rullens grinned. "Well, if you're going to Denerim, maybe you can beg the commander for money."

"You make it sound so easy," Varel said, putting his fingers in his mouth without realizing it. He was not sure he was prepared to face the commander in person, though he knew his fears were surely groundless. Surely.

The captain's grin grew wry. "It must not be, if you're biting your fingernails."

Varel snatched his hand away from his mouth, cursing the fact that he did not have his gauntlets on. Just wearing them was usually enough to discourage that bad habit. He cleared his throat and said, "There is no guarantee she will be at the palace, you know. She might well be in Highever."

"Huh, I suppose that's true." Rullens peered at him. "You're hoping she won't be in Denerim, aren't you?"

In actual fact, Varel was praying she would not be, but he was hardly going to admit it. "Well, it seems I have no choice but to go to the capital. At least I will only be gone a few days, instead of a few weeks."

"We haven't been idle in your absence," Rullens said, taking a wax tablet out of his belt pouch. "Garevel and I have brought our numbers up to about half strength, and the first batch of recruits we brought in last year are about done with training. Sandis and her assistants have spent the past few days fitting them with armor. It would have gone faster with a blacksmith, but..."

"That's wonderful news!"

Rullens grimaced. "I also turned out the soldiers who participated in the attack on Highever. I advised them to seek service somewhere far from Amaranthine, and to keep their heads down. They should have no trouble finding posts - many nobles - well, the surviving ones - must be trying to rebuild their forces. I just hope the commander will be satisfied with their dismissal and leave it at that."

"Losing experienced soldiers is always a blow, but it had to be done. I don't think the commander will waste time hunting them down." Varel prayed the commander would not make a liar of him.

The captain did not look very reassured, but went on. "We still have a long way to go. Half strength isn't full strength by a long shot, but we can't hurry them through training, either." His expression grew embarrassed as he extended the tablet towards Varel. "I hate to add to your burdens, but we really do desperately need certain supplies. Sandis is doing her best, but without a smith, we have to do our own repairs, and to do them properly we need things we can't make ourselves."

Varel eyed the proffered tablet with resignation, then took it. "I'll see what I can do."

"When are you planning to go?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Rullens sighed. "You're getting back at me for giving you that list, aren't you?"

"Actually, it is because I want to return as soon as possible, but there's no reason why it can't be both."

Rullens shot him a wry look. "Very funny."

The sentry horn blew outside, then Varel thought he could discern the dull beat of hooves in the distance. He and Rullens crowded around the arrow slit to see what the commotion was about. "Oh, I didn't expect the Grey Wardens to return so soon," Varel said, catching a glimpse of blue.

"Are you sure it's the Grey Wardens, and not someone else?" Rullens said as he put his arming cap and helmet back on and followed Varel out of his office.

"Who else could it be? The commander's courier came only a few days ago, so I'm not expecting anyone else."

Varel caught a servant on the way to the entrance and had him get some meals ready for their guests, then they met Hadrian of all people in the courtyard; from the scent of something pungent hanging about the Grey Warden, he had indeed availed himself of the herbalist's expertise.

"Feeling better?" Varel said, as Hadrian paused to wait for them to catch up.

"Somewhat," Hadrian said. Perhaps the pain had turned him sour, for he seemed to be in better humor. "The herbalist volunteered to apply the paste herself."

"And did you let her?" Varel said, raising a brow. Rullens looked blank, until Varel explained Hadrian's problem to him in a whisper; the captain had to look away, cover his mouth, and smother a snicker.

Hadrian smirked. "Yes. Why not? It's difficult for me to reach back there, after all. She said I could come by at any time if I needed her help."

Rullens could not contain a bark of laughter. "I'll just bet she did."

Further jesting had to wait, for Fiona had entered the inner courtyard; a groom, carrying her bags, trailed behind her. Petrus was nowhere to be seen, but he was no doubt still taking care of his horse himself.

Varel approached and gave her a bow. "Welcome back, Fiona. May I ask if you were able to help the Dalish with their halla?"

"You may, and yes, I was," Fiona said, giving Rullens a nod. She raised her brows in mild surprise when Hadrian also greeted her.

"You were able to cure their Blight sickness?" Varel was impressed as he walked with the mage into the keep. "What did you use? Can it be adapted to work for other animals? Humans? Elves?"

"Oh, it wasn't Blight sickness at all," Fiona said, making a wry grimace at the disappointment she saw in his face. "It was a fungus, and they sickened when they breathed in the spores while they grazed near an abandoned quarry. The Keeper's First had already done much to relieve their distress when I arrived, which is why we are back so soon. They should make a full recovery."

"Odd that they have never encountered this problem before," Varel said, glad the Dalish would not have to put down their halla. It would have been a terrible shame to have to kill such magnificent beasts. "They must know every inch of the woods."

"The halla are intelligent enough to avoid it," Fiona said. "I suspect traces of the darkspawn stench from the nearby quarry overwhelmed the scent of the fungus enough that they didn't realize what they were eating. And it is so hard to find greens in winter that they couldn't resist. Hunger tends to overwhelm caution."

"Hm, I may have to warn the swineherds and shepherds to avoid that area," Varel said. "But I'm keeping you from your bath and rest. Someone should bring a hot meal to your room soon." Fiona's face was pinched with cold, the bottoms of her robes and legs were splashed with mud, and he doubted the Dalish camp had provided any of the amenities she was used to.

Fiona gave him a tired but grateful smile. "Thank you." The groom, who had been waiting patiently all this time, trotted after her.

Petrus, burdened with his saddlebags, arrived just as Fiona disappeared around the corner towards the bathhouse, just as splattered with mud as she was, but not looking as tired. Then again, their brief journey to the Wending Wood probably qualified as a mere jaunt compared to his usual patrols in the Anderfels.

"Welcome back, Petrus," Varel said with a bow.

"Thank you," Petrus said, nodding at Rullens and Hadrian, though he, too, raised his brows at Hadrian's presence.

"I'd better take a look at the roster and make sure I can get an escort together for you when you leave, Varel," Rullens said. He gave the Grey Wardens a bow. "Please excuse me."

"You are leaving?" Petrus said, gesturing for both Hadrian and Varel to follow. "Where are you going?"

"Denerim, ser. I have some business there."

Petrus blinked. "I know you are shorthanded, but must you go yourself?"

"I must consult the royal marshal on a matter of protocol," Varel said as he walked with Petrus to his room. "As the matter is somewhat urgent, I must go myself, or they might leave any messenger I send cooling her heels." He explained his dilemma with the banners. "Unless you know what we should do?"

"Er, no," Petrus said, his eloquent expression suggesting the thought had never crossed his mind, and that he thought Varel was a little mad for worrying about such a frivolous thing.

Varel tried to explain. "The Grey Wardens from Orlais will be arriving this month. They must be used to the splendors of Empress Celene's court, and while we have no hope of matching it, still I would not want Amaranthine to be shamed. Besides, the old banners, at least, must be taken down and replaced."

"It seems a waste of money you can ill afford to waste on such fripperies, not to mention time, but I defer to your judgement of these things," Petrus said as he opened the door to his quarters and waved them inside. He set down his saddlebags on a table and took off his cloak, hanging it on a peg. "Hadrian, why don't you go with him?"

Hadrian looked as surprised as Varel felt at the suggestion. "What?"

"Though your flight was, hm, not well thought out, you fought quite well," Petrus said, leaning against the table and folding his arms. "In the weeks since the darkspawn ambush, you've done all that I have asked without complaint, even when I was not there to watch, so you are due a short leave before we take ship to the Free Marches."

"Thank you," Hadrian said, then his expression grew wry. "It would be more meaningful if I had any actual money to spend."

"I think you mean 'waste'. But I'm sure you'll manage," was Petrus's dry reply. "You will receive a stipend once we reach Weisshaupt Fortress; I have no authority to draw on funds here. Perhaps if you ask nicely, Seneschal Varel will tell you where to find free entertainment."

"We'll leave you to your rest, then," Varel said, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one.

"I know Petrus suggested it, but you don't have to come with me if you don't want to," Varel said to Hadrian as he closed the door behind them.

Hadrian shrugged. "Why not? It's not as if I have anything better to do. I can't go back to the city here, my crew might still be around."

"Then we'll go to Denerim, first thing tomorrow. But you'll want to ask the herbalist for more ointment."

"Oh, no." Hadrian halted and stared at him, horrified. "You mean we have to _ride_?"


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel is forced to go to Denerim, and is saddled with the newest - and most reluctant - member of the Grey Warden order for his sins.

The housekeeper wasted no time in suiting action to words, and set the servants to preparing the guestrooms. Varel had to dodge men and women so burdened with linens, tapestries, and other fripperies that they had to peer around the high piles in their arms in order to see where they were going. All this commotion did not fail to arouse the curiosity of the Wardens, who left their rooms not long after their return, and sought Varel out in his office.

Varel greeted them and rose at their entrance. "I apologize if all this activity has disturbed you. Please, sit."

"No, no, we needed to speak to you, and now it is more urgent that we do so before you leave for Denerim," Petrus said, settling into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Fiona sat down next to him, looking much better after a rest. "Though I admit I am also curious as to why there is all this sudden bustling about."

"Oh, the Grey Wardens from Orlais will be arriving later this month, so we are getting the castle ready to host them," Varel said as he added another log to the fire, for he knew his guests felt the cold more keenly. He poured cups of tea from the pot on his desk and offered them to the Wardens, and tried not to feel too guilty about abandoning the ledgers he had been perusing.

Petrus looked enlightened. "Ah-ha, so that was why you were asking me about banners."

"Banners?" Fiona said, arching an eyebrow.

Varel sat down with his own cup of tea and explained his dilemma about the banners, and more importantly, what device the soldiers should use when they were not Grey Wardens themselves. "I don't want to get it wrong and cause offense." _Not in front of Orlesians_ , he thought but did not say.

Fiona and Petrus exchanged a bemused glance. "I did not get the impression the new Warden-Commander put much stock in appearances," she said. "Of course, you never met her, so you wouldn't know."

Petrus gave Varel a knowing look, as if he had heard Varel's unspoken thought. "And whatever you may think of Orlesians, they are Wardens first, with a much different set of priorities than the rest of their countrymen."

Varel ducked his head, acknowledging the mild rebuke. "I admit, it's more for the sake of the nobles who will attend upon her."

Understanding dawned on Fiona's face, while Petrus looked perplexed. "Ah."

Petrus gave Fiona a puzzled frown, then turned to Varel. "What do you mean?"

"They may need a... call it a reminder." Varel hid a grin at the thought of how uncomfortable the nobles would look, when they saw tangible proof at how much the status quo had changed. It faded soon enough when he recalled he would soon have to work closely with the very agent of that change - the Warden-Commander.

A cynical smile played about Fiona's lips as she sipped her tea. "Not a very subtle one."

Varel chuckled. "We're Fereldans; anything subtle simply would not work."

Fiona's smile turned both nostalgic and bittersweet. "That's true enough."

"I don't suppose you would know what we should do about the banners, Fiona?" Varel said. "It would save me a trip."

Fiona scoffed and made a self-deprecating gesture. "As if a mage who has spent most of her life in the Circle, and then became a member of an order notorious for its disregard for rank, would know. So I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Oh," Varel said, disappointed but not surprised. "Well, no matter - you did not come here to listen to my woes. Is there something I can do for you?"

"It is time we returned to the north," Petrus said. "We must book passage on a ship going to the Free Marches - Cumberland for Fiona, and also where Hadrian and I can travel along the Imperial Highway to the Anderfels."

Though he had been expecting this, Varel was still dismayed. "You are leaving so soon? You have only stayed a short time."

"I only agreed to come here because I wanted to see - that is, I have a, er, unique... perspective of Ferelden, due to my previous visit, and because I can easily find passage to Cumberland in Amaranthine." Fiona looked wistful. "I would have liked to attend the royal wedding, but I cannot stay that long."

Her tone did not invite questions, and Varel was too polite to press her, even if he did wonder at her odd interest in the wedding. He would have thought she had seen any amount of pomp and ceremony in Orlais, and the Orlesians could put forth a much more impressive effort than anything Fereldans could manage. Was it because the new king was a Grey Warden? Well, it was none of his business. "I can find you a berth on a ship with a trustworthy captain after I return from Denerim."

She looked relieved at the change of subject. "We would be most grateful." Reaching into her belt pouch, she drew out a small leather bag that clinked when she held it out to him. "Here, payment for passage."

"But the Grey Wardens would pay -" Varel looked to Petrus, who said nothing, to his surprise.

Fiona shook her head. "This is not Grey Warden business. In truth, they kicked me out long ago, though I still have some friends in the Order."

Varel blinked, but he was not all that surprised, for there had been hints here and there that the mage was not part of the order, such as her lack of insignia and her absence from the patrols - Petrus would not have abided it. But what could she have possibly done to warrant her expulsion from an organization famous for its tolerance?

Petrus's lips twisted into an unhappy grimace. "I would not have you think it was because of anything she did, Seneschal, but due to circumstances out of her control. It was not a decision I supported."

"It happened many years ago," Fiona said with a wave of her hand. "There are other causes that I am pursuing that are just as important." Neither seemed inclined to elaborate on just what those causes were.

Varel still did not take the purse. "Then we should pay - you never claimed your rightful share of the spoils from any of the battles you aided us with."

The mage shook her head. "I know how desperate your situation is, so there is no need to do that." She pressed the purse on him again. "So here, take it."

With reluctance, for Fiona was not wrong, Varel took the small pouch and looked through its contents. "This is more than enough to secure comfortable accommodations on a fast ship for you, your horses, and any baggage you have."

"The Grey Wardens taught me how to travel light. Everything I own is what I am now carrying and in my saddlebags." Her mouth quirked in an amused smile. "Simply because I am from Orlais does not mean I am incapable of pragmatism."

"Will you require an escort?" Varel knew the Vigil's forces were stretched thin, but it would be disrespectful if they did not provide one.

Fiona looked amused. "No. I am a mage - I can take care of myself. Besides, Petrus and Hadrian will be going the same way."

Petrus nodded. "It should not be hard to find and purchase a horse for Hadrian in the Free Marches. How long will it take to arrange passage?"

"Two days, perhaps three to find someone reliable - and willing to take on your horses," Varel said. "It depends on what ships have come in, and whether they will be taking on cargo here. You would be wise not to take the first ship you see in port; there are some captains I would not trust with their own mothers. And if you'll permit, I can purchase foodstuffs of better quality than what is provided for the sailors."

"Very well, then. Thank you for your assistance," Fiona said. "Neither of us is used to making such arrangements. Hadrian would be, but I imagine he would only be familiar with Tevinter ports."

"Since his ship never officially entered any Fereldan ports, because it had been hiding near that island," Petrus said. "Just as well we are asking the seneschal here to help us, eh? I am not certain Hadrian could resist the temptation of the open sea."

"You think he will try to escape again?" Fiona looked concerned. "But once we go our separate ways in Cumberland, you won't be able to watch him all the time. You will have to sleep at some point."

Petrus scoffed. "Look at the way he walks, Fiona, even after all this time ashore! You can tell he has never been on away from the sea for long, because only sailors have that peculiar gait. You really think someone like that can elude me on land?"

That confident remark eased the worry on Fiona's face. "Well, that's true. When I was still in the order, the other Wardens said you were so good, you could track over bare rock."

"They exaggerate my prowess - only dogs can do that, and only if it has not rained." Petrus turned to Varel. "How long do you plan to be away?"

"It depends on when the royal marshal would be willing to see me," Varel said. "But I think I will be gone no more than a sennight."

"Hm. I will write a letter asking this royal marshal to assist you. I do not know if it will work, but it will also do no harm." Petrus's scarred face twisted into a wry grimace. "Thanks to the Wardens who ended the Blight, the order is riding high at the moment, so you might as well try using that to your advantage."

"I, er, I would not have presumed," Varel said. "But thank you, that would be quite helpful."

"The sooner you return, the sooner you can arrange passage for us, after all," Petrus said, dismissing Varel's thanks. He set aside his empty cup and rose to his feet. "Well, we have taken up enough of your time, so we shall take our leave."

Varel walked his guests to the door, then turned to his desk, making a face at the ledgers still sitting there. No matter how he juggled the numbers, he always came to the same conclusion: he had no choice but to dip into the funds he had set aside for emergencies. Unless the royal marshal allowed him and his escort to stay at the palace, he would have to put himself and the others up in an inn. And then there were the things the housekeeper and the armsmaster wanted him to buy, in addition to the banners. Perhaps he really should go beg the Warden-Commander for funds, as Rullens had joked.

Shaking his head, Varel left the ledgers and went out to made preparations for his journey to the capital tomorrow. Sandis waved at him when he arrived in the outer courtyard to speak to the stablemaster. "Hey, Varel, we purified and cleaned up that haul the soldiers brought in from that darkspawn ambush you and the Grey Wardens got caught up in. You wanna see it?"

"Why not? I never did get a chance to examine them closely - I was too busy trying to stay alive to admire the craftsmanship of their weapons." Varel followed the armsmaster to the armory, where the spoils had been laid out on a table inside.

The ones too far gone to repair had been stacked in a pile, awaiting a smith to melt them down, and looking at the cruel spikes and barbs that the darkspawn seemed so fond of, Varel could see why Sandis decided all they would be good for was scrap metal. Most of the salvageable pieces were unremarkable, but there were a few exceptional weapons that stood out. 

"That's dwarven craftsmanship! And look how fine it is." Varel admired the double-bit battle axe the darkspawn leader had used, for the armsmaster and her assistants had done an excellent job of cleaning it. Now that the dirt and grime and rust had been removed, the inlaid gems and gold that gilded the edges of the designs etched into the axe head glowed in the sunlight.

The armsmaster looked less than impressed. "Eh, something like that was never intended to be used. I'm surprised anyone could lift it, much less fight with it."

"You didn't see the size of the darkspawn wielding it - I was nearly cleaved in two!"

Sandis snorted. "Obviously you were able to dodge it, because it's so huge and heavy that it's also slow."

"It wasn't that easy! That gap was very narrow, and I was hemmed in by all the bodies on the ground, which was very slippery with blood and melted snow." Varel shuddered at the memory of the darkspawn raising that huge axe up high, lit by falling snow and the eerie glow of Fiona's staff.

"Anyway, some rich dwarf probably hung it on his wall and told lies about it to impress his friends. Still, you oughta be able to fetch a handsome price for it. You're going to Denerim, aren't you? Why don't you take all this lot with you and sell 'em there?"

Varel shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea - there must surely still be a glut on the market after taking the spoils from the battle with the horde. Since I don't know the merchants in Denerim as well as I do the ones in Amaranthine, I would have to waste time tracking them down, and I want to return as soon as possible. I can sell them there like I did with the slavers' belongings. I have to go to the city anyway to arrange passage for the Grey Wardens."

The armsmaster looked disappointed. "Oh, are they leaving so soon?"

"They did say they would have to leave once spring arrived." Varel looked around at the rest of the spoils, and noticed an odd pile on a shelf. "Are those the extra full-face helmets that you wanted me to buy?"

"Yeah, those boatmen of yours really came through for us. Even though none of them match, and many of them are old-fashioned, they picked well-crafted helmets. They've got a real eye for quality."

Varel took one of the helmets and opened the visor, then examined the rest of it. Though some effort had been made to polish out scratches and dents, it was obvious it was not new. Still, it was quite serviceable. "They're not _my_ boatmen. But, yes, they are reliable, aren't they? Perhaps I should consult with them as to where to find a reliable captain."

"You do that, I've got to get back to the repairs." Sandis jerked her thumb at another table, this one covered with shields and pieces of armor, along with various tools. "I'll have the loot packed up and put in a cart for you to take to the city. It should be ready by the time you get back."

"Thank you."

The armsmaster sat down and picked up a leather pauldron, and began pushing a needle into the tough material in order to apply a patch to a worn spot. Her assistants were also taking advantage of the light to mend other pieces. "At least you'll have clear weather for your trip."

Varel cast a suspicious glance at the last of the sunlight flooding into the armory. "I mislike this weather, actually. You know there's usually one last storm before winter finally loosens its grip."

"Well, come back before you get caught in it, like you did when you went after Hadrian," Sandis said, and smirked. "I hear Clara's gonna skin you alive and turn your hide into a rug if you ever put her on the spot again."

"That was only because Rullens and Garevel were away on patrol," Varel said, trying to hide a wince and failing. "The captain will be in charge in my absence, so Clara has nothing to worry about."

Sandis grinned. "You'd better be right, otherwise you won't be able to escape her wrath, not even if you ran all the way to the Anderfels."

Varel made a strategic retreat to escape from further teasing while he still had most of his dignity intact, and left the armory to speak to the stablemaster. He followed the smell of smoke and sounds of hammering to the back of the stables, where he found the man at the small forge; he was shoeing a horse being held by one of the grooms. Since the stablemaster was occupied, and that hoof was the last one being done, Varel decided to wait for him to finish that task. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench from the hot metal placed against the hoof.

The stablemaster finished hammering in the last nail, twisted it flat and cut it, then filed it down. He let the horse's hoof down, then patted the horse's neck before letting the groom lead it away, while another groom took care of cleaning up the forge and gathering tools.

As the stablemaster stretched and pressed his hands against the small of his back, he spotted Varel. "Oi, kept ye waitin' long, Seneschal? Sorry."

"Not very," Varel said, waving the apology aside. "I plan to go to Denerim at dawn tomorrow, so I need you to prepare four mounts for me."

Wiping his hands with a rag, the stablemaster frowned. "Four? If ye're t'only one goin', don't ye usually take jest two with ye fer an escort?"

"Warden Hadrian will be accompanying me."

"Oh. Him." The stablemaster sniffed; it seemed he had not quite forgiven Hadrian for stealing a horse and tack from his stables. "Well, fine, I'll git 'em ready fer ye. But ye say ye're goin' ta Denerim? I don't s'pose -"

Varel sighed. "Don't tell me - you have a list of things you want me to buy."

The stablemaster rubbed the back of his neck, looking chagrined. "Er, huh. Um. How'd ye know?"

"It's been that sort of day." Resigned to his role as everyone's errand boy, Varel held out his hand. "Well, give it here."

Being illiterate, the stablemaster handed over a tally stick, not a list, but Varel had plenty of practice with reading the crude symbols carved on the wood. "I make no promises," he said as he put the stick into his belt pouch.

The other man shrugged. "Aye, I know. Doin' me best ta save bits, ye see, cobblin' t' repairs tagether our own selves, 'stead of hirin' a farrier, but we really need a smith fer t' fiddly bits. T' horses t'arl took ta Denerim got new shoes, but not t'ones left behind, see, and ye kin see they're gettin' worn down mighty thin. We got spares, but..."

"I understand. The Warden-Commander recommended a blacksmith, who will arrive either this month or the next, so do your best until then."

The next morning, at dawn, Varel met Hadrian and his escort in front of the stables in the outer courtyard. Despite the promise of spring, the wind off the sea blew as brisk and chilly as if it were still winter. The bleary-eyed Grey Warden, huddled in his cloak, had his arms crossed and a disgusted expression on his face as he watched the yawning grooms bring their mounts out. Petrus was there, too, looking much more alert, though Fiona was absent.

"Good morning, sers. Have you decided to accompany us, as well, Petrus?" Varel said, though the answer seemed obvious, for Petrus's horrible little horse was not there.

"No, no, I am just impressing upon Hadrian the need to be on his best behavior." Petrus gave the newest member of the order a piercing stare. "His _very_ best behavior."

Hadrian rolled his eyes. "I'm not a boy fresh from his first sea voyage to a foreign land." At the look on Petrus's face, he added a more polite, if belated, "Ser."

Petrus grunted, realizing that was the best he could hope for. "Just remember that Fereldans have no great love for Tevinter Imperials, even before the news of the slavers in Denerim spread, as I am sure it has. I advise you to stick close to the seneschal, keep your head down, and stay away from the alienage."

This time Hadrian's reply was more subdued and wary. "Yes, ser."

Varel suppressed a sigh, wondering if saddling him with Hadrian was another one of Petrus's tests, and was perhaps testing Hadrian at the same time, as well. Resentment welled up, which he did his best to squash, for it was nothing compared to what Arl Howe had done in the past. Still, it seemed he had quite lost his appetite for swallowing the feeling down.

Oblivious to Varel's thoughts, Petrus looked satisfied with Hadrian's response. "Good luck, Seneschal, and safe journey. Fiona and I will see you when you return." He nodded to them both and left.

Varel turned to Hadrian, who was eyeing his horse with vast disfavor. The gelding switched its tail and eyed him back with placid indifference, especially when no treat looked to be forthcoming.

"Must we ride?"

From the resignation on Hadrian's face, the question was rhetorical; Varel answered anyway. "I'm afraid so, if we're to make good time."

"Ugh."

A groom, struggling to hide a smirk, brought a mounting stool. Hadrian glared at the boy, then at the blameless gelding, but took the hint and hauled himself into the saddle with ill grace. Varel managed to keep a straight face, but the two soldiers Rullens had assigned to them as their escort had to turn their faces away, unable to conceal their grins.

Varel imagined he was less clumsy mounting his own horse. "We can't ride in the city, however. That is a priviledge reserved only for the army, the royal guard, and nobles."

Hadrian clutched the saddle pommel with one white-knuckled hand and kept tight hold on the reins in the other in an effort to keep himself from sliding right off. "They can keep the Void-spawned beasts."

"Then the sooner we get there, the sooner you can get off, at least until we must return." Varel gestured towards the open gates, though the Pilgrim's Path still lay in shadow. "Shall we?"


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel goes to Denerim to consult with the royal marshal, but the journey is not as uneventful as he likes.

Varel kept a vigilant eye out for darkspawn and bandits, but none showed, at least not near the vicinity of the Pilgrim's Path, perhaps because bandits were not inclined to wake so early. Darkspawn would be drawn to Hadrian, but none had shown since the ambush, and even then they had avoided sunlight by attacking under the cover of a snowstorm.

He had to rely more on sound than sight, and on his mount's keener senses, for the trees of the Wending Wood blocked most of the sunlight, and the only illumination came from the brightening glow of the dawn beyond the forest. Beneath the scents of horse and snow still lingering in the cold air, he smelled damp earth, and heard a lone bird greeting the morning, one of the first of the spring arrivals.

Despite his worries about the safety of the Pilgrim's Path, no foes sprang from ambush as they passed the high cairn - built over the years by the pious - which marked the halfway point between the Vigil and Denerim. The murky gray of dawn began to give way to muted colors, not that trees still bare of leaves supplied much to delight the eye. Still, as the light grew stronger, Varel could see dots of color on the ground, where wildflowers poked their heads up out of the melting snow like shy maidens.

He was content to ride in a silence broken only by the hoofbeats of their mounts, the jingle of harness and armor, and the creaking of leather. This was just as well, for Hadrian did not look inclined to start a conversation, given the way he was huddled - nearly hunched - into his cloak, his face obscured with a thick scarf. Perhaps his saddle sores still pained him, despite the herbalist's efforts.

The trees of the Wending Wood began to thin out, giving way to empty fields and to a view of Denerim in the distance sooner than Varel expected; the southern fringe of the forest showed signs of recent cutting. He wondered why, for unseasoned wood could not be used for rebuilding, not if the woodworkers wanted buildings that would last more than a few years.

From what could be seen of his face, Hadrian was not impressed as they approached the great walls of Denerim, but then it would be difficult to overawe someone used to the splendors of the ancient Tevinter city of Minrathous. The great gates the darkspawn horde had broken down were now repaired and held open; the huge metal hinges gleamed in the sun, in contrast to the darker color of the wood, which was also new.

Hadrian reined in his horse, cursed as he started to slide off, and tightened his grip on the saddle pommel until his knuckles turned white. Varel halted his own horse with more finesse, though this was not a high standard to meet. "What is it?"

"What are those?"

Varel looked at where Hadrian was pointing, a large field some distance away from Denerim, which was covered with flat mounds of frost-covered earth. Feeling his stomach grow cold, he said, "That must be where they burned the bodies from the battle. Of both darkspawn and the fallen."

Hadrian stared. "They are... many piles."

"This is where the Fifth Blight ended," Varel said, recalling the thick plumes of smoke that had blackened the southern sky for days, and the ashes that had coated the back of his throat and choked him when the wind blew them towards the Vigil. "At great cost, as you can see."

He should have known, even before seeing those mounds, that the fumes had not come solely from arson or accident, that they would have had to burn the darkspawn and honor the dead - hundreds of them, at the very least. The remains of Captain Lowan and the Amaranthine levies were out there, somewhere. Now he knew why much of the forest to the north of Denerim had been denuded.

"It seems impossible for a Blight to have ended in a year. All the stories I ever heard of past Blights say it took decades to stop one."

Varel looked back at Hadrian, who wore an expression of deep skepticism under his scarf; behind the Warden, the soldiers were bristling with outrage, not that Varel blamed them. "Have you heard of darkspawn invasions with these numbers, and lasting this long?"

Hadrian had nothing to say to that, but he looked unconvinced. The problem was that neither of them knew enough of the lore to converse, much less argue, and Petrus was back at the Vigil. Varel nudged his horse back into motion, and took some petty satisfaction at hearing the Grey Warden curse again as his mount followed its fellows without his command.

No one spoke for a while, then Hadrian said, "Didn't think the farmer would let them use their land for that. I wouldn't."

"What makes you think the farmer is still alive?" Varel said. "But this close to the city, this land likely belongs to the arl of Denerim." Whoever that was; the courier who brought letters from the Warden-Commander had mentioned Arl Urien was dead, as was his son - though from everything he had heard of Vaughan Kendells, that had been no loss. It was only one title of many others going begging. He hoped no succession crises would arise; Ferelden had enough troubles.

"Look! Up there!" one of the soldiers escorting them said, startling Varel out of his thoughts. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Maker! Is... is that the _archdemon_?"

"Part of it, anyway," said the other soldier, who sounded no less awed, despite the flippant words.

Varel squinted up at Fort Drakon, where he could just make out ropes lowering something down, and in a moment he was able to discern the shape: a wing like a bat's, but of immense size. There would be no way to bring something that large and unwieldy down the stairs, much less the entire carcass. He made a face, not envying those who had to undertaken the grim business of dismembering it, nor the ones who had to manhandle it all the way to the ground. They could not simply shove the whole corpse over the side when there were so many buildings that surrounded the fort.

He looked at Hadrian, and jerked his head at the sight. "Do you still disbelieve it was a true Blight?"

Hadrian stared up at the tower, then looked away, his skepticism replaced with disquiet. "No. Not anymore."

Daunted, they all subsided into silence. Varel thought they all breathed a little easier once the curve of the walls hid the gruesome sight.

There was little traffic this early, and trade would not truly pick up until warmer weather came, at any rate, so they did not have to wait in line to enter the city. At the gates, the surprisingly alert sentries halted them and demanded that they state their identity and business.

"I am the seneschal of Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine, here to see the royal marshal," Varel said, and presented the first letter the Warden-Commander had ever sent him as his credentials.

"Tryin' to get into the palace?" The guard snorted. "Good luck with that." He eyed the document, recognizing the Cousland wreath seal even if he couldn't read. He handed the letter back and waved the sentries blocking the way to move aside.

Varel wondered what the guard meant as he led the way to one of the stables placed conveniently near all the gates, for no one but nobles and the royal army could ride in the city. The stable-keeper came out, bleary-eyed and yawning, at the sound of their approach. Varel dismounted at one of the blocks set out for the purpose, handed the reins to one of the soldiers, and dickered with the stable-keeper over the price of feeding and taking care of their mounts. The price for fodder made Varel wince inwardly, but since business was always slow in this season, despite the hint of spring in the air, he managed to shave a satisfactory amount off the price.

Hadrian was the only one clumsier than Varel at mounting and dismounting. Varel waited until he finally reached the ground - on his feet this time, not his arse, fortunately for the man's dignity. The Warden's face made a series of interesting contortions above his scarf, muttering under his breath as he stopped clutching the saddle pommel and his legs took his full weight. _Damn all horses to the Void_ was the only phrase Varel heard that was not pure Tevene profanity.

"Are you quite finished?" Varel said, during a pause in which Hadrian had to breathe. Hadrian glared at him. "The groom is waiting to bring the horse into the stables."

After giving Varel another brief glare, Hadrian pushed himself away from the horse he had been so vehemently cursing. Varel was ready to catch him if he fell over, but the Grey Warden managed to stay on his feet without equine support.

"What now?" Hadrian said, sounding surly.

"Now we walk out the stiffness in our legs, on our way to the palace." Varel gestured, where the palace could be seen towering above the other buildings, in the shadow of Fort Drakon. He did not plan to stay any longer than necessary, so none of them had brought anything in the way of baggage. Which was just as well, for the palace was near the center of Denerim, quite a distance away.

Under his scarf, Hadrian's face twisted. "Does your entire country stink of wet dog and dog shit, or is it only this part?"

After the clean scents of the forest and then the empty fields, the smells of the city were overwhelming; some places were long overdue for visits from Denerim's equivalent of Ulla's night soil collectors. Not that Varel would ever admit it in Hadrian's hearing.

Varel gave the Warden a warning look. "Please don't insult our dogs - unless you have a death wish."

"I wasn't insulting your dogs - I was insulting your country!"

Varel scoffed. "I suppose Minrathous smells only of roses and lilacs?"

Hadrian hesitated. "Well, no," he said with reluctance. "It smells much like any port city I've ever visited, and I've been to many over the years. But I'm certain Minrathous never stank of this much dog shit."

They were now under the shadow of Fort Drakon; this close, they could hear the distant curses of the people working on bringing down the archdemon's corpse.

Hadrian stared up at it again, even though they could see nothing from this angle. "Speaking of stink, why did they wait so long to remove it?"

"Presumably there were more important matters to deal with." Varel gave the area they were walking through a pointed glance, for signs of new construction and rebuilding were visible everywhere. Even a blind man could not miss it, because the incessant hammering and pounding grew deafening at times, even though it was still early in the day. "Besides, it has only been three months since the war ended."

The fires had long since been put out, but Varel could see black streaks marring those walls and facades still standing. All the bustle and industry heartened him, and he had hopes trade would return to normal after a year or so, once news of the end of the Fifth Blight spread to other nations. The Coastlands were fortunate that the Grey Wardens had stopped the horde before it devastated the north like it had the south, though the darkspawn that had ambushed them in Amaranthine worried him a great deal. That was a problem that would erupt at the worst possible time, he was certain of it.

The street they were on opened up into a large open marketplace; the sellers must have shared Varel's hopes of renewed trade, for most of their stalls were already set up in anticipation of early morning shoppers. Their efforts were not in vain, because though it was not as crowded as it would be later in the day, small groups of people were browsing their wares. A heap of colorful rolls of fabrics displayed in one of the booths diverted Varel from his darkening thoughts. This particular merchant was not quite finished setting up his wares yet; he looked up from his work as Varel stepped up, wariness replacing the cheerful welcome in his expression when he took in their appearance.

"May I help you, ser? Sers?" the man said, giving Hadrian, an obvious foreigner, a curious glance.

"I'm looking for a deep blue fabric," Varel said, and pointed at several rolls stacked in the back of the booth. "Like those. Show them to me, please."

The seller was more than happy to do so, unrolling a length in order to extol its virtues, but before Varel could examine the cloth more closely, Hadrian reached out and grabbed hold of a corner.

Hadrian held up the cloth between two fingers, as if it were a dirty rag, and gave it a look of disdain. "This fabric is poorly woven, and this color - it'll fade faster than a dockside whore's looks. I wouldn't wipe my arse with it." With that, he tossed it back on the table.

The seller went red in the face. "Here now, you can't believe everything a _foreigner_ says, can you, ser -"

"This foreigner is a Grey Warden," Varel said, making sure his voice carried. The marketplace was not as crowded as it would be, later in the day and the season, but there were still some people out and about. "Is what he said true? Surely you wouldn't be trying to sell me trash simply because I'm not from around here?"

"Guh-Grey Warden?" the man repeated, his face gone pale. He looked around at the curious onlookers starting to gather at his stall, then tried for a smile; it looked ghastly. "Er, you said you wanted to look at these bolts, so I brought them out, but, of course, I have much higher quality cloth I haven't had time to set out yet. I'll, er, I'll just go get them now, shall I?"

While the seller retreated into the back of the booth in order to gather up the cloth and, Varel suspected, his composure, he leaned towards Hadrian. "I didn't know you were such a shrewd judge of fabric quality."

"I wasn't born a ship captain, you know, though that would have made my life so much easier. I started out as an apprentice to a weaver, and worked my way up from there."

Varel glanced at him, but Hadrian did not elaborate. There was a great deal 'worked my way up from there' covered - at least five years, and as many as twenty. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the pouch that contained the money he had portioned out for this venture, wondering if he dared trust Hadrian with it.

Hadrian had not tried to run away again, and he had gone on patrols with Petrus without complaint, in miserably cold weather he was unused to, and on a horse he only recently learned how to ride. Varel made his decision and offered the small pouch of coin to the surprised Warden, as well as a piece of parchment. "This is how much is needed. Whatever you can shave off in your bargaining is yours to keep."

The Warden weighed the pouch. "Quite the incentive to do a good job, then." The wry awareness in his eyes said that no matter how good his haggling skills were, there would not be enough left over to get him a berth on a ship for even a short journey, much less across the sea.

"If you can find any banners or bunting already made, of good quality fabric, buy that, instead. Mind you pick out good ones - I'm not accepting anything shoddy. I trust you can tell the difference between a griffon and a chicken?"

Hadrian's only reply was a rude gesture that transcended all language barriers and cultures.

Stifling a smile, Varel turned to their escort. "Wedell, do you know the way to the palace?" The man nodded. "Then stay with Hadrian. Don't let him get robbed."

Hadrian huffed exasperation as he looked down at the small pouch in his hand; Varel did not miss the way the Warden's free hand touched the hilt of his sword. "Any thieves who tried would be doomed to disappointment."

"You never know if they're desperate enough to try," Varel said. "Meet me at the palace when you're finished making your purchases."

"And how are we supposed to get in?" Hadrian said. "I'm an obvious foreigner not wearing any insignia, nor am I carrying any sort of credentials."

Varel supposed it was much more complicated getting in to see the Archon than it was for a Fereldan to see the king and queen. Still, the Warden had a point. "I'll let someone know they should expect you."

As a foreigner in a strange city far from home, Hadrian might be right to look doubtful, but he turned back to the cloth seller as Varel and the other soldier, Sara, moved through the dispersing crowd around the stall.

They had only just entered the grand plaza that held the royal palace when someone called out to Varel. He wheeled around and was surprised to see Hadrian and Wedell hurrying to catch up to them, both of them so burdened with stacks of dark blue fabric that they had to peer around them to see where they were going.

"That was quick," Varel said as he glanced at the piles in the two men's arms.

"It wasn't as hard for me to obtain the banners as I thought," Hadrian said, looking smug. "It seems enterprising tailors and seamstresses - and anyone who knew how to use a needle and thread - made up bunting to celebrate the victory over the darkspawn horde. The best of them, they tell me, were reused for the royal betrothal."

Varel took one from the top of the pile Hadrian was carrying and shook it out; the silver thread depicting the griffon gleamed in the sun. "New bunting and banners are being made for the wedding itself, I take it, which is why these were for sale?"

Hadrian nodded. "I only bought the ones in the right colors. Dark blue and silver, yes? There were more of good quality, but used... unfortunate color combinations."

Wedell made a face. "Some of 'em made m' eyes water."

"You're such a good judge of quality that I'm surprised you changed professions," Varel said as he folded the cloth back up and handed it to Sara. "You could have appraised or inspected goods for a living, instead of... well."

"I wanted to be my own man, not work for another. But I needed money to do that - that's the long and short of it." Hadrian scowled in memory. "That was the last run I needed to finally own my ship free and clear. Now, well, I wonder if my creditors can track me all the way to Ferelden."

"I suppose your creditors will have to run after the Grey Wardens to recoup their losses."

Hadrian's eyes crinkled; Varel was certain his mouth had stretched into a malicious grin. "If I had any money, I'd pay to see that."

Varel had Sara take some more of the load from the others, and led them up to the palace. At the entrance, he looked around for Arl Howe's head - or what was left of it - but there was nothing, not even empty pikes, in front of the gates. Perhaps the queen had decided not to begin her joint rule with the new king with such grisly reminders.

One of the two guards had just asked Varel's business, when the other suddenly braced to attention. "Ser!"

"Ser Cauthrien," Varel said, crossing his arms and bowing. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Cauthrien stepped out of the shadows of the open portcullis and gave the piles of fabric three of them were carrying a curious glance before meeting Varel's gaze. "Seneschal. I didn't think I would ever see you anywhere outside of Amaranthine."

"And I would be there still, but there is some information I can only obtain here."

"If you've come to see the king and queen, you're out of luck. There's a long, long line of petitioners ahead of you." She hesitated, then went on with a soldierly forthrightness that Varel found quite refreshing after dealing with the arling's nobles. "They plan to tour the holdings that took the brunt of the horde's attacks in the south later, once spring finally arrives, so everyone is trying to get them to look at _their_ lands first. And I'm afraid you don't have the rank, the clout, or the money to jump the queue."

Varel shook his head. "No, I've no need to see them. I was hoping to speak to the Warden-Commander."

"The Warden-Commander is not here," Ser Cauthrien said. "She left some days ago to visit her estate in Highever, in company with her brother."

"I'm pleased to hear she has recovered enough to travel, then."

Cauthrien grunted, her usual non-answer whenever it came to the Warden-Commander. "She should be back tomorrow or the next day."

"Well, that's what I get for calling upon her unannounced," Varel said, feeling both disappointment and a vast relief. "Oh, yes, I believe you remember Hadrian, who is now of the Grey Wardens."

Cauthrien threw a glance at the Warden that was tinged with more than a little coolness. "Yes, I recall."

Hadrian had not forgotten the interrogation Cauthrien had subjected him to, for after exchanging an uncomfortable look with Varel, he ducked his head and said a wary and neutral, "Ser."

"He hasn't given you any trouble, I trust?" the knight said, without taking her eyes off Hadrian.

Varel recalled how Hadrian's foolhardy plan to run away from the Grey Wardens in the middle of a blizzard had led to a darkspawn ambush; he and the soldiers had risked Blight sickness to save him, and they had to count themselves lucky that all they lost was a good mabari. He gave Hadrian a sidelong look as he said, "No. No trouble."

Turning back to Varel, Cauthrien said, "I can tell the steward to set aside rooms for you, if you want to wait for her return. Though with all these nobles here, all you may get is a bunk in the barracks." The bleakness in her eyes said there were far too many empty beds there.

"Thank you for the offer, but I can't stay. I need to speak to the royal marshal and return to the Vigil at once."

Cauthrien nodded at the wisdom of this, and led them inside. "Do you know where the archives are?"

"I've only been here once before, and that was years ago," Varel said, glancing at the great doors that led to the throne room, where the Warden-Commander had fought her famous duel with Teyrn Loghain, then at the other hallways. They all looked only vaguely familiar from his previous visit.

Cauthrien snagged a passing page. "Take these people to the royal marshal," she told the boy before turning back to Varel. "Once you've finished your talk with her, get a hot meal in the dining hall before you leave. I must return to my duties, so if I do not see you again before you return to Amaranthine, Maker watch over you." She gave them all a brisk nod before turning to leave.

"That was... kind of her," Hadrian said as he stared at the retreating knight's back, as if he'd expected the opposite.

"Yes." Varel wondered if it was mere courtesy, or if she knew Grey Wardens had increased appetites, for Cauthrien served the new king, now, as well as the queen.

The page led them to a large, airy room that took up three open floors that went all the way to the tall roof; it resembled the dwarven bank's library: scrolls and books were lined up in neat rows on shelves and pigeonholes, and light came from generous windows in the high ceiling, with real glass panes, not mere parchment. Varel was glad to see the archives had escaped the battle unscathed, for a room so filled with flammable paper would have surely burned to its foundations. The scents of beeswax and parchment and old books made him feel quite nostalgic for the Vigil's own library.

The royal marshal was perhaps two decades younger than Varel, and though she had been crippled in battle years ago and now had to sit in a chair cunningly fitted with wheels, her eyes were bright and alert, giving the lie to the pain lines etched on her face. She held court behind a huge desk a dwarven banker would not be ashamed of, sending both elves and humans forth to search for this book or that scroll almost as soon as they arrived with her previous requests. Scribes surrounded her like bees around their queen, furiously taking notes as she dictated them.

She looked up and raised her brows, for Varel and his armed and armored group looked quite out of place in such a scholarly setting. "Yes? You look too well-armed to be servants." Her eyes went to the piles of fabric three of them were carrying. "Besides, the new decorations don't even go up until next month."

Varel introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit. "As you may know, Lady Krole, Amaranthine has been granted to the Grey Wardens, and we're expecting a dozen of them from Orlais to arrive next month. I know we have to replace the old banners, but not whether non-Wardens are allowed to use either their symbols or colors."

Her look of mild annoyance faded, and she waved her assistants away. "I've been so busy with the wedding preparations that I forgot all about that grant. Well, you came to the right place. Let me see... we'll have to start with the history of the Grey Wardens in general, then of the order in Ferelden. Liam!" she called, and a young man looked up. "Be a dear and fetch it for me, please."

Turning to Hadrian and the soldiers, Varel said, "Why don't you go and get those hot meals Ser Cauthrien promised, and wait there for me? This may take a while." The others looked uncertain. "Just ask a page to take you there."

The royal marshal's assistants, especially the elves, looked much more relaxed once three of the four armed men left the room. Were they still skittish from the battle, or did the cause of their unease lie in something more sinister? Perhaps they just smelled too strongly of horse. They went back to their interrupted tasks, leaving Varel the illusion of privacy.

Pointing at an empty chair, Lady Krole said in a tart tone, "Sit down, Seneschal. I do so dislike people looming over me, and you're taller than most. I already get a crick in my neck from needing to look up all the time, so I don't need it getting worse."

Varel obeyed, content to watch as Liam labored to bring a huge tome nearly as large as he was to the marshal. Lady Krole rolled up her sleeves, revealing arms thick with muscle from pushing her own chair, and took it from the young man with ease. She had to consult several books, all brought by the attentive Liam. Varel had the sneaking suspicion that only the uniqueness of Amaranthine's situation had diverted her from the much more important business of the wedding. She was too young to have attended, much less helped organize, King Maric's wedding to Queen Rowan; she stood to gain much prestige from all this work she was doing on the queen and new king's behalf.

The royal marshal closed the book she had been perusing and handed it off to Liam. "Right, from what I can discern from the precedents - not that there is one that matches exactly - non-Wardens may wear the Grey Warden colors, but not any form of their griffon symbol."

"Can we retain the arling's bear symbol?" Varel paused. "Should we?"

Lady Krole shrugged. "That depends on the Warden-Commander. But given her recent history..."

"Indeed." About to take his leave, Varel thought to ask, "You've met?"

"She has been searching the archives for Grey Warden lore while she is recovering."

"What is she like? If you don't mind my asking."

Lady Krole shook her head. "I really can't say - I've been much too busy with the betrothal and wedding preparations to exchange more than a few words with her. She's been polite to both the elves and humans who work here. That's a rare attitude to see in a fellow noble."

Disappointed, Varel stood and bowed. "I see. Thank you for your time, Lady Krole."

As Varel caught a passing page and followed the young girl to the dining hall, he considered how fortunate he was to receive an answer to his question so quickly. He had expected to stay at least a day, perhaps two, and now he could return at once to the Vigil.

The dining hall the page led him to was a vast space that was double the size of the Vigil's, but only half full at this early hour. The scents of baking bread and frying sausages made Varel's stomach growl; the soldiers ate well here - but then, there were fewer of them to feed now than before. Though not even soldiers serving in the royal palace could get tea, to his disappointment, but pitchers of ale sat at each of the tables.

Varel's heart sank when he looked around and found only Sara, piles of fabric sitting on either side of her. He told himself not to panic; perhaps Hadrian and the other soldier had only gone to the privy.

He served himself a bowl of porridge from the pot left in the middle of the table, took a loaf of bread still hot from the oven, and sat down across from Sara. He also took several sausages, kept hot under a cover. "Where are Hadrian and Wedell?" he said as he tore the loaf open and spread goat's cheese from a clay pot on it.

Sara winced. "Warden Hadrian said he wanted to take a walk around the plaza. Wedell went with him. I said we should wait for you, but..."

Varel frowned, but he had not explicitly forbidden Hadrian from leaving the palace. Not that he had any real authority to do so. Again he wondered what Petrus had been about, telling him to take Hadrian along. "Did he say he would return?"

"No, ser."

"Eat quickly - we need to find him and return to the Vigil."

With a pang of regret, Varel parted with a few silver coins for a page to deliver the banners and bunting to the stables where they had left their horses, so that they could search for the others unburdened. He hoped Hadrian was still somewhere in the palace district, and prayed this was not a second attempt to escape from the order.

Sara spotted them first, and pointed at a corner of the plaza, where baulks of timber were hidden under a waxed canvas tarp, forming a temporary shelter. Hadrian and Wedell were the only ones with cloaks and armor squatting down with a group of what looked like common laborers, intent on something Varel could not see, though he could hazard a guess. He huffed an exasperated breath and walked towards them.

That was the plan, but the laborers suddenly jumped to their feet and yelled at Hadrian, spurring Varel and Sara to break into a fast walk; he did not want to arrive so out of breath that he was useless. The Grey Warden rose to his feet with swift, easy grace, his hands going for the sword and dagger at his hips; Varel did not miss the light of avarice crowding out the surprise in the laborers' eyes.

The laborers had hammers and makeshift clubs of timber, but Hadrian had speed and real weapons, though he was intelligent enough not to draw them. Wedell had gotten to his feet, but he stood frozen, uncertain as to whether to restrain Hadrian or help him, but at least he had his shield on his arm. The men hesitated, exchanged glances, then lunged at Hadrian and Wedell.

Hadrian slid aside as a man took a swing at him with a hammer, punched him in the gut, and shoved him into two other laborers. Before they could disentangle themselves, the Warden drew his dagger and jabbed the pommel into the arm of another man wielding a club, hard enough for him to drop the thick wooden plank. Wedell slammed his shield into the man's friend, who had tried to sneak up on Hadrian, spoiling his blow, but one wildly waving fist clipped Hadrian along the side of his head.

The sight of the dagger daunted the laborers only for a moment, for they went for Hadrian again, the ones in front holding up planks to protect themselves from the blade. Hadrian, eyes alight, kicked in one of the makeshift shields, knocking it out of the man's grasp and slamming it against his chest. The luckless fool fell, taking down several of his compatriots with him and hindering the others.

Varel reached them and grabbed Hadrian's weapon hand before he could use the sharp end. To his relief, the appearance of two more armed and armored strangers was enough to scare the laborers into picking themselves up and running.

Turning to glare at Varel, Hadrian jerked his hand out of Varel's grip and sheathed his dagger. "It took you long enough to arrive."

Giving him a dry look, Varel said, "You did not exactly inform me of your plans. Besides, you were enjoying yourself, weren't you?"

Hadrian grunted and said nothing, which was answer enough in itself.

"If you're feeling that frustrated, there are any number of soldiers willing to spar with you, back at the Vigil."

"Your soldiers would gang up and beat me into the ground if I pulled this on them," Hadrian said, and grinned as he held up a handful of belt pouches by their cut strings. "Though judging from how light they are, they didn't have much. Still, this is adequate revenge for turning on me."

"When did you - nevermind, I don't want to know." Varel looked around, but no one had noticed the commotion amidst the cacophony of rebuilding. "We should leave before they gather their courage and bring reinforcements. Or fetch the guards."

As they hurried to the nearest gate, Varel glanced at Hadrian. "What happened? I could see you were gambling, but not why they turned on you."

"They accused me of cheating, when I didn't! Yet," Hadrian added, when Varel looked skeptical. "It was the easiest way to get more money, short of robbing."

"I think they would have attacked you regardless. The fools saw a foreigner with good armor and weapons, and thought they could rob you with impunity."

Hadrian threw a scowl back at Wedell. "They should've recognized your man's colors."

"Sorry, ser," Wedell muttered as he slung his shield onto his back. "Didn't think they'd try somethin' like that. They wasn't darkspawn, I didn't want to hurt 'em."

"It's all right, Wedell. I doubt anyone here would feel charitable towards soldiers associated with Arl Howe," Varel said. "I'm told he caused a great deal of misery when Teyrn Loghain gave him the arling of Denerim, and his troops bore closer resemblance to criminals than guards."

Expecting a hue and a cry to be raised at any moment, Varel was glad they were able to escape the palace district without any further trouble. He did not think the laborers would go to the city guard, but they still should not linger.

They had to pass through the market district again to reach their stables; the area was more crowded now than earlier, which would help hide them from any pursuers. But the extra traffic had also brought out the city guards, three of them standing near the stalls. The two guards standing next to the sergeant seemed more interested in the appearance of their own armor than watching for trouble, but the sergeant himself had sharp eyes - just the sort Varel wanted to avoid right now.

"Blast," Varel muttered, and turned to Hadrian. "Pull your hood forward and cover your face better with that scarf. Your dark complexion is hiding the bruise, but your eye is already starting to swell."

Hadrian made a face, but complied. "And try not to look too foreign?"

"That would help, yes - as would keeping your mouth shut." Varel thought a moment, then told the soldiers, "Go on ahead of us and make sure the horses are ready. Hadrian and I will follow on a few moments later."

At Hadrian's raised brows, Varel said, "I forgot to buy some cloth to wrap the banners in, and splitting our group up would make us look less conspicuous."

Feeling as though the guards were staring right at him, Varel went to one of the stalls that sold secondhand clothes, and bargained for a few clean - if patched and threadbare - blankets, while Hadrian pretended to examine the whitesmith's wares in the neighboring booth.

Varel did not breathe easy until he and Hadrian arrived at the stables, where Sara and Wedell had brought out the horses, as well as the banners the palace page had delivered. Leaving the soldiers to wrap up the fabric in the blankets and pack them away as best they could, Varel paid the remainder of the fee to the stable-keeper. Once they had distributed all the wrapped parcels into everyone's saddlebags, Varel led them out of the yard and through the gate, where they could use the mounting blocks set there.

While traders, farmers, and travelers passed them and stared in curiosity, Hadrian eyed his waiting mount with unconcealed loathing.

"Staring at it won't get you back to the Vigil any faster," Varel said, once he was aboard his own horse.

The Warden scowled up at him, then at the horse. "If you give me trouble, I'll gut you," he muttered to the beast as he led it to the mounting block.

Varel stifled an undiplomatic smile as he watched Hadrian haul himself into the saddle. "I will remind you that it isn't your horse."

"I'd be doing you a favor!" Hadrian said as he took the reins in a white-knuckled grip - which only made his normally placid horse shift nervously.

Shaking his head, Varel turned his horse onto the road, leading them at a walk to one side to avoid the foot traffic and the carts. He heard hoofbeats as the soldiers fell in behind him, and more Tevene curses as Hadrian's mount followed without his input.

As traffic thinned, Hadrian managed to move his horse up next to Varel. "There's no need to mention this... incident to Petrus, is there?"

Varel snorted. "And how do I explain your black eye?"

"You could lie."

Varel did not even dignify that with an answer. He turned to the others and said, "It's a beautiful day, despite the cold - let's give the horses their heads." With that, he nudged his horse into a trot - the gait most novice riders hated.

As he heard renewed cursing, Varel allowed himself a smile.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel returns to Vigil's Keep with his answer, banners, and a Grey Warden in less than pristine condition.

Amusing as it was to hear Hadrian cursing his mount's lineage unto the eighth generation, Varel, and horses in general in both King's Tongue and Tevene, Varel let his horse slow to a jog. Hadrian caught up with them, shooting Varel an angry glare, to which Varel returned only a bland look. Not that Hadrian could sustain eye contact for long, for he was not a good enough rider to keep his eyes either off the road or off his horse.

As Hadrian looked much too peeved to start a conversation, Varel turned his thoughts towards the tasks ahead as they rode back to the Vigil. Though the sun shone down upon them, it was still too late to go to the City of Amaranthine today; even if they made good time, they would arrive just as night fell, and he would have to find lodgings for all of them. Better, and cheaper, to spend the night at the fortress, then set out again at dawn with a fresh escort. Hadrian should not accompany them, for his sailors - and victims - might still be hanging about the docks.

Horns rang out as they came out of the Wending Woods and into the view of the Vigil's sentries. Hadrian finally grew quiet as their mounts climbed the slope up to the fortress, a worried look just visible above his scarf. His eye, where the laborer had clipped him with a wild blow, had swollen nearly shut, and Varel was not looking forward to Petrus asking him about it. With any luck, Petrus was still away on patrol.

Grooms hurried out of the stables to take charge of the horses, fetched out mounting stools, and unloaded saddlebags.

Varel dismounted and did his best to slap the road dust from his cloak, then turned to Hadrian. "You had better see the herbalist about that eye, and any other injuries you might have taken."

"I - yes. Good idea." Hadrian sent a furtive glance around the courtyard, seemed glad that Petrus was absent, and pulled his hood further forward as he strode into the fortress.

Rullens came out of the barracks at the commotion. "Varel! You certainly got back quick! I thought you'd be in Denerim for at least a few days."

"So did I, but I was able to see the royal marshal at once, and she answered my question. I was also able to purchase all the banners we need for a good price."

"Excellent news," Rullens said as he watched the grooms carry the folded bundles of banners into the keep at Varel's order. "Now those Orlesians - er, Orlesian Wardens - have one less reason to turn their noses up at us. Mark my words, though, they'll find something else. Did you manage to see the Warden-Commander?"

"No, she wasn't at the palace; she happened to be visiting her estate in Highever."

Seeing Varel's ambivalent expression, Rullens smirked and said, "You really dodged an arrow there, didn't you?"

Varel gave the captain an irritated look, though he could not argue with that. "This is no laughing matter, Rullens. I had hoped to make my case for granting me access to more money to her in person."

Rullens snorted. "Beg, you mean."

Praying to the Maker for patience, Varel scowled and said, "Yes, if you must be so crass - beg!"

Rullens shrugged, making his mail jingle. "It can't be helped, I suppose. You'll just have to wait for her to arrive in another, what, two months? Right, two months. A good thing, too - she's starting to seem almost... mythical."

"A myth could not have accomplished all that she has."

Though he looked dubious, Rullens did not gainsay him, turning instead towards the keep. "I suppose." He glanced at the sky. "It's not much later than the dinner hour, so the cooks can make up something hot for you with little effort. Are you going to stay put for a while? I want to go out with a patrol soon, to make sure the area around the Turnoble estate truly is clear of darkspawn."

"A hot meal sounds good, but tomorrow I must be out and about again," Varel said as he followed the captain into the keep. "I have to go to Amaranthine to arrange sea passage for the Grey Wardens, and I plan to also sell the spoils from the darkspawn ambush at the market."

Having been told of the Grey Wardens' eventual departure months ago, Rullens looked resigned. "I'll be sad to see them go, even if Petrus is a dour fellow, and Hadrian is a shifty troublemaker."

Grateful for the walls that sheltered him from the cold and wind as they walked under the portcullis and up the stairs, Varel said, "Take heart, Rullens - they may be leaving, but we shall be hosting a dozen new ones, soon enough."

Rullens grunted, a noncommital sound that could signify anything from indigestion to grudging acceptance. "How long will you be in the city?"

"I should only be gone for a day or two. Three at most."

Beneath his helmet, Rullens's brow wrinkled in doubt. "I'm just a landsman, but is that enough time for you to find a ship willing to take passengers? _And_ their mounts? I assume you're not hiring the first vessel you clap your eyes upon."

"Certainly not. I'm hoping to see one of my uncle's old friends, in fact, a captain whose ship should be putting in at Amaranthine any day, now, if news of the Blight hasn't frightened her off." Varel thought of all the hazards a ship's captain had to navigate: fickle winds, dangerous currents, sudden storms, hidden reefs, mutiny, and pirates. To a seaman, darkspawn would rank low on that list. "I doubt it would deter her."

"But what if she's not there? Are you going to wait however many days it might take for her to arrive?"

Varel shook his head. "No, she's my first choice, but there are other captains with good reputations that I know of. I'll see who's in port, ask around."

Rullens nodded at the wisdom of this. "I'll check the roster and arrange an escort for you, then. Do you think Bann Esmerelle is still chapped about that whole affair with the slavers? She's a champion at holding a grudge. Quite like our late and unlamented arl, in that."

"That opportunity has passed, and what I'll get from the latest spoils will not tempt her, I think. Still, I will deposit the funds into the Vigil's accounts immediately after I sell them, and hurry back, lest she be put out enough to harass us."

Rullens headed to his office while Varel went to his quarters to drop off his gear and fetch a clean set of clothes for a bath. As he rummaged in his press, he found the sack holding his boatman's rags - the housekeeper had pointedly had them laundered the same day he had returned - and gave it a thoughtful look, then picked it up and set it on his desk. Perhaps, if he had time, he would look in on Ker and his cousins while he was in the city, and see what he could glean from their scurrilous gossip.

He had just finished his bath and was on his way to the dining hall when distant hoofbeats and the sentry's horn announced the return of a patrol. Varel went to the nearest arrow slit, trying to see if this was the group Petrus had attached himself to, and swallowed in apprehension when he spotted the Grey Warden's distinctive armor. No point hiding in his quarters, he decided, and went out to greet his guest.

To Varel's shock, Petrus and the other soldiers stank of smoke, their grim faces streaked with soot, sweat, and dirt. Instead of the polite welcome he had prepared, he blurted, "Maker's breath! What happened?"

Petrus opened his mouth, then shut it when he saw the grooms gathered about them, though they had given his evil little horse a wide berth. "I thought you would still be in Denerim."

"I was able to wrap up my business quickly. But what happened?"

Petrus dismounted and held his horse on a tight rein. "I think this news had best be imparted somewhere more private, Seneschal."

"Of course." Varel's stomach began to knot with anxiety, for the Grey Warden would not ask for discretion if they had run into mere bandits. He turned to the patrol leader, sweeping the rest of the soldiers with a stern eye. "Report to Captain Rullens at once, and the rest of you, keep your mouths shut."

Suppressing the urge to tap his foot in impatience, Varel waited just outside the stables for Petrus to put up his horse, then led the other man into the keep. "I'm sorry, ser, I should not keep you from your rest just because I wish to hear the news -"

Petrus glanced around, and once he had assured himself that no one was in earshot, said, "Bad news can travel fast enough on its own, Seneschal. We found a small steading to the far northwest of the arling that had been burned to the ground, the farmer and his family and hirelings slaughtered. We burned them in all honor before finishing the patrol. I wish I could give you more details, but there were no clues as to their names."

Varel's heart sank as he ushered Petrus into his office. "Not the work of bandits?" he said, closing the door. Maker forgive him, but he found himself hoping for bandits.

As if he had read Varel's thoughts, Petrus gave him a sympathetic look. "No. The tracks of the darkspawn were unmistakeable. Did you not see smoke in the north?"

"I assumed it was a charcoal burner at work." Would they have to investigate each and every plume of smoke, be it a pilgrim's camp or a shepherd's cookfire, they could see from now on? It seemed a disaster in the making, with their forces stretched so thin, but could they afford to ignore the danger?

"Was it under the Vigil's protection?"

"Where was it again - the far northwest, you said? Then, no, it is - was - not. There is little point in looking to a distant lord for protection when help would arrive too late to be of any use." Varel made a mental note to send word to whichever lord or lady the farm did look to - assuming they were still alive. "Were you able to track the darkspawn?"

Frustration etched deep lines into Petrus's scarred features. "The darkspawn are once again proving strangely elusive. I almost want to stake Hadrian out as bait, just to see if the monsters will bite."

Varel felt that idea had a certain charm, but did not say so. "I am keeping you from your rest. We can discuss this matter further after you've washed and eaten."

Petrus grunted what might have been agreement as he rubbed his face, and seemed surprised at the amount of grime that came away onto his hand. "I think I will have to take you up on that offer. Where is Hadrian, anyway?"

"He should still be in the dining hall, ser. I was about to head there, myself."

"Perhaps I will see you there, then." Petrus gave him a nod and left, taking his reek with him.

Varel stopped by the kitchens and served himself a deep bowl of stew from the pot simmering on one of the hearths, and thanked a cook as she shoved a tray holding a warm loaf of bread, a generous wedge of cheese, and shallow dish of pickled cabbage and sausage at him. Everyone else was too busy eating to pay him any mind, since the kitchen staff could only take their own meals after serving those who ate in the hall.

The dining hall was near empty at this hour, so Varel saw Hadrian and the two soldiers who had accompanied them to Denerim at once. As usual, several empty bowls and platters surrounded Hadrian, and he was giving the thick pieces of stale bread in front of the others a hungry look, having already eaten his own. Sara and Wedell exchanged a glance, and pushed their own trenchers towards Hadrian. Hadrian gave them an embarrassed but grateful glance out of one eye - the other was nearly swollen shut - before picking one up and biting into it.

"Report to Sergeant Maverlies," Varel told the soldiers, and made a shooing motion at them once he put down his bowl of stew. "Tell her I said you can go off duty for the rest of the day." Not that there was much left of it.

They grinned at him and hurried from the hall, leaving Varel alone with Hadrian, though not for long, for Petrus entered not long after, with the soldiers from his patrol. The housekeeper must have set a spotter, for several boys hurried out of the kitchens, carrying laden trays that they set in front of the new arrivals. The patrol sat at a different table, while Petrus sat next to Varel, across from Hadrian, who looked apprehensive.

Varel would swear he could see Petrus suppressing a sigh when he saw Hadrian's black eye, but he chose not to take the former captain to task in front of others. "Find some ice to put on that eye and go lie down. You will need both eyes open when we go on patrol tomorrow."

Hadrian looked grateful to be let off so easily, and left, trying and failing to look as if he were not scurrying.

Petrus turned to Varel. "Should I ask about his black eye?"

Varel eyed the Grey Warden, but Petrus did not seem too upset. "He, er, had an... altercation with some fellows he was dicing with."

"Because he is Tevinter?"

"The commander said the slavers operated solely within the Denerim alienage, so I doubt any humans had much to do with them. No, I think they saw an obvious foreigner and decided to rob him more directly." Varel hesitated. "Not that I blame Hadrian - he was just defending himself - but... he took to the fight with more than a little enthusiasm."

Petrus did not look surprised. "I imagine he had some anger to work through, and he found a convenient target."

"You anticipated this?"

"Most of our unwilling conscripts, those who survive the Joining, grow angry over being parted from their previous lives, like their families, their fame, their wealth, even their old occupations, if they enjoyed their work."

"If you knew that, why did you send him along with me?" Had this been another of Petrus's tests? Varel tried to stamp down on his growing annoyance, and stuffed his mouth with bread to stop himself from saying something he would regret.

Petrus shook his head. "I truly did not expect him to give you any trouble. Hadrian is older than most, and has been patrolling in this miserably cold weather without complaint, so I thought him more mature thereby. Losing his ship must have been a greater blow than I suspected."

"I see," Varel said, relaxing. He poured ale from a pitcher left on the table and pushed the tankard towards Petrus. "You look tired. Are you well?"

Petrus took it with a grateful nod. "Well enough. I never get used to seeing the aftermath of a darkspawn attack, despite it being a sadly frequent sight, back in my homeland."

It occurred to Varel, not for the first time, that Petrus was no stranger to arriving too late to such scenes. Varel wished he could help. Well, if he could not help with the darkspawn, not being a Grey Warden, he could at least smooth the way for the next leg of their journey.

"I understand you will be traveling again tomorrow, Seneschal," Petrus said as he cut a neat slice of his cheese and chewed it.

"To Amaranthine, yes," Varel said, enjoying the warmth as he swallowed a bite of his stew, which tasted of ham and bacon, even if neither were much in evidence. "I may be there for a few days, looking for a captain I can trust to ferry you and your mounts safely to the Free Marches."

"Oh, just my horse," Petrus said. "Fiona's mule is a loan from the royal stables, and I am afraid we will have to trouble you to return it to them."

"Oh, it's no trouble, I can send her mule back with the courier. Not having to accommodate her mount will be a significant savings, though it would be much cheaper to sell your horse here and purchase a new one once you reach the Free Marches."

Petrus turned a scandalized look upon him, as if Varel had just suggested Petrus should sell his child. "I am _not_ leaving my horse."

It would be hard to find someone willing to buy the evil little nag in any case, Varel thought but did not say.

"Do you know just how much a warhorse costs? Much less one trained not to panic when faced with darkspawn?"

Varel shook his head. "I'm no chevalier, I wouldn't know. A great deal, I assume."

Petrus sighed. "A vast sum, much more than what the actual passage would cost." He made a face. "I am not looking forward to this sea journey. I shudder to think what I will have to do to get my horse aboard."

Varel hesitated, studied the unhappy expression on Petrus's face, and said, "Would you care to accompany me?"

Petrus grunted around a mouthful of bread. "That... is not a bad idea. Perhaps the bracing sea air will inspire some new strategy. And should you chance to find a ship, it would set my mind at ease if I saw the arrangements for my horse first before buying passage."

Somehow Varel knew Petrus would care more about the accommodations for his horse than the berth meant for him. "If you plan to board a ship, then this might be helpful." He took out a twist of waxed paper from his belt pouch and pushed it across the table towards the Warden.

Bemused, Petrus opened the paper and raised a quizzical brow at the contents. "What is this?"

"Peppermint and black horehound, a common Fereldan remedy for nausea. I had one of our soldiers purchase it the last time we were in the city."

Petrus took a cautious sniff and jerked his head back at the pungent scent. "What a powerful smell! Strong medicine," he said in approval.

"Use a small pinch to make a tea, and drink it an hour or so before you board the ship, and it should help settle your stomach. There should be enough to get you across the sea."

"A thoughtful gesture. Thank you." Petrus twisted the paper closed and put it carefully in his belt pouch.

"Will Hadrian be all right without you to ride herd on him on patrol?" Varel said, as delicately as he could. "Especially now that the darkspawn have become bold enough to attack that farm."

Petrus scowled. "I have neither seen nor sensed any darkspawn since the ambush, though I have found signs and tracks of their passage. Attacking _us_ instead of some defenseless farm would at least be some sort of progress." He paused. "The darkspawn should not be proving so elusive. I have been worrying about the implications, and I cannot imagine Warden-Commander Elethea will be pleased with my lack of answers."

"Surely she does not expect you to stop all the darkspawn by yourself? Especially if they are led by" - Varel lowered his voice - "a talking darkspawn."

"No, but I am currently the most experienced Warden in all of Ferelden," Petrus said, with no hint of arrogance whatsoever. "For all the good that does us. In any case, it is time he rode a patrol without me hovering over him. That is what he will be doing, eventually, once we return to the Anderfels. Besides, I think he should not return to Amaranthine so soon."

Varel nodded. "Yes, his surviving sailors might still be haunting the docks, looking for work. They won't be best pleased if they see their former employer."

"Speaking of those who would not be best pleased to see us, what of Bann Esmerelle?" Petrus said, cutting another slice off his loaf of bread. "You were concerned enough about her to keep your soldiers with you, instead of sending them on with your slow wagons."

"Rullens asked me much the same thing, and I will tell you what I told him: Bann Esmerelle missed her chance, and what I plan to sell in the city is too little to tempt her. Or at least, too little to be worth the trouble." After a moment's consideration, Varel said, "Which is not to say she won't harass us, but your presence might discourage even that."

"A pity," Petrus murmured as he applied himself to his stew, "for Hadrian is not the only one who would like a target to work his frustrations out upon." A glint in his eye told Varel that the bann had better step lightly.

After they finished their meals, Varel led Petrus to the library and had him point out where that farm had been on the map, and winced when he saw that it had looked to Lord Eddelbrek for protection.

Petrus noticed his expression. "Is this lord a difficult man to deal with?"

"Lord Eddelbrek? No, the opposite, in fact. I'd rather deal with him at his worst than Bann Esmerelle at her best. Well, her most icily polite." Varel sighed as he made a note to send a letter to the man. "But he will try to pressure me into sending more patrols to the farmlands, and if the other nobles think he succeeded, they will be after me, too."

Petrus frowned, as if he suspected Varel of overstepping his authority - what little he had. "That is now the Warden-Commander's decision, not yours."

"Yes, but I'm here and she's not."

"Lucky for them," Petrus scoffed. "I would like to see them try to browbeat _her_. It would be a more riveting spectacle than an Orlesian play."

"We could make a fortune selling the show, no doubt," Varel said, his voice dry. "Perhaps it is just as well that I will be away from the Vigil for a few days."


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel travels to the City of Amaranthine in order to arrange passage to the Free Marches for the Grey Wardens.

The next day, dawn found Varel, Petrus, and a fresh escort on the road to the City of Amaranthine, with another soldier driving the covered cart that held the spoils from the darkspawn ambush. Varel frowned, for he rode the same horse he had taken the previous day, and the stablemaster had assigned his new escort the mounts Sara and Wedell had used. They seemed none the worse for wear for being ridden such distances two days in a row, but the aging population of the castle's horses worried Varel. It was an irrefutable fact that a mounted patrol could cover more ground than one on foot.

Horses, even if they were far below the quality of chevalier chargers, cost money, a great deal of money. Varel glanced back at the sacks in the cart, and turned back, suppressing a sigh. The Vigil's funds were far too low, in his estimation, to deal with so many tasks, including the rather urgent ones of finding any entrances to the Deep Roads and sealing them, somehow. And make repairs to the crumbling fortifications. And pay the smith and the stonemason, not to mention purchasing the necessary materials and hiring the workmen. And...

Varel rubbed his face, letting the cold metal of his gauntlet bring him to his senses. Nothing could be done about any of this until the weather grew warmer, and the craftsmen actually arrived. The horse fairs would not take place until late spring and autumn. Perhaps, by that time, the resumption of trade would have brought in enough money to fund everything they needed. Always assuming, of course, no new disasters occurred.

With that reminder, Varel turned his attention to the road and trees they were passing at a trot, for it truly would be a disaster to lose an honored guest to an ambush. Petrus huddled in his cloak, but Varel had not put his own hood up, for he wanted to savor the tantalizing hint of spring warmth in the cold air, and also keep an eye on their surroundings.

No darkspawn or bandits leapt out from the trees upon them, but Varel did not relax until the woods thinned and they reached the same farm he had used to stable the wagons and horses brought for the slaver raid. The farmer, preparing for spring planting, stopped the aged horse pulling his plough and waved. He hurried across the fields to them.

A small handful of bits purchased care, fodder, and space in the farmer's barn for the animals and cart; Varel promised the farmer more if he had to stay longer in the city. Petrus secured his own horse, and made sure the farmer understood he was not to touch or allow anyone else to touch the evil little nag. After parceling out the heavy sacks of spoils, they walked the rest of the way up the hill and through the crowd of refugees to the main gates into the City of Amaranthine. The display of the grisly remains of thieves had been taken away, at least, perhaps because they would start to smell as the weather grew warmer.

Constable Aidan happened to be at the gates, making an inspection. He turned at their approach, then gave Varel a nod, his face set in a bland expression. Varel supposed that cool reception meant Aidan had not yet forgiven him for his unilateral decision to raid the slavers, which had surely made Aidan look like a fool in front of Bann Esmerelle.

"Halt!" one of the guards said as he barred their way; Varel recognized him as one of those who had accompanied the sheriff, when they had come to retrieve the prisoners captured on their raid. "Who are you, and what is your business in Amaranthine?" As if he did not know perfectly well who Varel was.

Varel narrowed his eyes. The bann had to have instructed her guards to do this; they would not have been so confrontational with another armed group - one in a different livery. He glanced at Aidan, but the constable would not meet his eyes, which seemed to confirm his guess.

How far were they willing to go to keep them out? If it came to a fight, Varel's group's would lose, as the guards far outnumbered them. And if they backed down from this harassment, that would no doubt adversely affect his reputation - and more importantly, the reputation of the Grey Wardens. This lack of respect would color all future encounters.

Varel glanced at Petrus, who had not yet spoken; he seemed content to let Varel handle this. No help looked to be forthcoming from that quarter, not that Varel blamed him; Petrus was as much a foreigner here as Hadrian, whatever authority he might command in the Anderfels. Still, the guards might be prepared for Varel and any Vigil soldiers, but he doubted the bann could have foreseen the presence of a Grey Warden in his party. And what she had not foreseen, she could not pass on orders for.

"I am Varel, seneschal of Vigil's Keep. I trust I don't have to explain to you what or where that is."

The guard frowned, as if trying to figure out if Varel was mocking him. Behind the guard, Aidan rolled his eyes, and Varel was hard put not to do the same, for this made clear the bann did not hire soldiers for either their initiative or intelligence.

"This is Petrus, a Grey Warden," Varel said, gesturing to that worthy. Petrus shifted at the sound of his name, enough for his cloak to fall open for the guard to see his griffon badge, but still said nothing. "We are here to hire a ship willing to transport him and two others to the Free Marches."

The guard looked uncertain, as Varel had expected. Constable Aidan chose that moment to step in. "If you have legitimate business to conduct in the city, you may enter."

"But, ser, the bann -" the guard began; Aidan silenced him with a look and jerked his head. The guard stood back, looking unhappy.

As Varel and the others passed them, Varel heard Aidan and the guard speaking in low tones.

"This is getting far above your paygrade - and mine," Aidan said.

"But, ser, how do you even know he's a real Grey Warden? Any smith's 'prentice can make up a little badge like that -"

"He is. They have this, this _look_ in their eyes you learn to recognize."

Petrus looked as stoic as a granite cliff, as always, but Varel thought he saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Well played, Seneschal," he said, once they were out of the guards' earshot.

"I hope you didn't mind us hiding behind your name and order," Varel said as they neared the market.

"I am glad to be able to do at least this much good, seeing as how I am making little to no headway against the darkspawn." Petrus looked ahead towards the gate that led to the docks, then turned to Varel. "Well? What now? Do we go to the docks and look for a ship?"

"No, not yet," Varel said. "It would take hours, searching for one ship amongst many. The harbormaster maintains a list of what ships have arrived, when, and where they are docked. But first, I would like to sell the spoils, so we are not burdened, then store the proceeds with the bank."

"I think I will be more hindrance than help in that work, so I shall go and pray in the chantry. Come and fetch me when you are done with that business."

"Very well, ser," Varel said. Petrus's scarred face could frighten an enraged bear; the merchants would be too intimidated to bargain without stuttering with the Warden glaring at them, and he wanted to return to the Vigil as soon as possible. "Morller, give me your bag and stay with him."

Petrus raised a brow, but did not complain about being assigned his own guard, knowing Varel would insist upon it. "Are you certain two soldiers will be sufficient for your own escort?" He nodded at the sacks they were carrying.

Varel touched the hilt of his longsword with his free hand; he had not brought his greatsword, since they might be boarding a ship, and a weapon that size would be unwieldy in such close quarters. "I believe we are sufficiently prepared for trouble."

As Varel passed by the marketplace, he saw several more elves had joined the two he had paid for information; he recognized them as whores the Tevinter slavers had captured. Bartholomew's shrill voice pierced through the cries of the shopkeepers hawking their wares, making Varel wince. He had hoped the reparations paid to the slavers' victims would be enough to keep them off the streets, where they would be at the mercy of any thugs or violent clients; it seemed he had been too optimistic.

Visiting the shopkeepers, observing the courtesies, exchanging gossip, and haggling over the spoils took up most of the morning; Varel was shocked to find the shadows so short when he stepped out of Glassric's shop, already slanting towards noon. The scents of roasting meat and hot bread floated towards him on the wind from the inns and stalls, making his stomach growl; the sweet pastries and tea the merchants had plied him with had been delicious, but not filling. The soldiers escorting him looked pinched with hunger, too, and they'd had nothing at all to sustain them.

"We shall go to the bank first," Varel told the soldiers as he secured his belt pouch, where promissory notes waited to be deposited. "Then we'll collect Petrus and get something hot to eat." They perked up at that.

While part of Varel's mind watched for trouble, the rest dwelled on what the merchants had told him. Most of them had not yet had a chance to sell their wares, and thus had not much hard coin on hand, but he had bargained hard with each of them for goods that the castle itself could not supply, nor those who looked to the Vigil for protection. He would have preferred actual money, but it could not be helped; there was surely still a glut of weapons and armor for sale in Denerim, and the only other large market close by, in Highever, would not greet him with joy, even if he knew any buyers, which he didn't. If the Warden-Commander interceded for him, they might be more amenable.

As a Cousland, the commander was related to the bann of the Storm Coast and the teyrn of Highever, both regions with ports to the Waking Sea; such connections should ensure trade would flourish all along the Coastlands. Well, it would flourish if the commander and the Orlesian Wardens could take care of the darkspawn problem. He would put up with Orlesians and their arrogant ways if it meant they could keep the arling safe from darkspawn - not that he had any choice, either way. He could not help but think that farm was only the first to fall to the monsters - and would not be the last.

After shedding both his weapons and his escort at the bank's entrance, Varel walked into the vast, drafty dome and stated his business to one of the dwarves. A servant had not yet even served him the customary cup of tea yet before Fray appeared and escorted him to her office.

After Varel hung up his cloak, he sat and they exchanged their usual courtesies. Her assistant brought a tray of pastries, a teapot, and two cups, then bowed himself out.

Fray poured tea into the cups, then handed one to him. "I hope ye haven't come to ask me to release more funds to you again, because I can't, not before your liege lady says so. She arrives, what, next month?"

"Justinian, yes." Varel took a sip of the tea to cover his apprehension at the thought, then pulled the promissory notes out of his belt pouch.

Despite Varel's care, her sharp eyes missed nothing. "Ye look like more like a man waitin' for the executioner, Varel, not yer liege lady."

"Warden-Commander Cousland won't execute me." Varel paused, breathing in the fragrant scent rising from his cup. "Probably."

Fray shook her head at him. "Ye'll be in a dither 'til ye meet her. I tell ye, ye have nothin' to fear, and ye know it."

"Telling me I have nothing to fear doesn't mean I can stop worrying. Besides, she is the least of my concerns, these days."

"Oh?" Fray leaned forward. "The darkspawn have started movin', eh? More than just poppin' up and scarin' the daylights out of some poor trader?"

Varel was not surprised she knew. "They attacked one of Lord Eddelbrek's farmers, in the north," he said, not bothering to keep the information secret. The rumors would be flying soon enough. "They killed the farmer and his family, and burned it to the ground."

Fray frowned, tapping her stubby fingers on her desk. "I tell ye true, Varel, I mislike what I'm hearin'. Ye know we maintain regular communications with the other branches of the bank."

Varel nodded; he had seen the heavily armed convoys sent out by the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, moving bullion to be minted at their destination, whether they be royals or sovereigns or gulders. It did not surprise him to know they carried information, too.

"Then ye know how people beg to join the convoys, for the safety; my cousin's in charge of one. Merchants usually attach their caravans to ours for protection, and we charge them a small fee for the priviledge. Last year, and this year, refugees followed. Those in charge of the convoys tried to drive them off, fearin' thieves, but ye know that's impossible."

"Like how camp followers and merchants always follow an army," Varel said. "There was never any point in chasing them off; they always came back. Profit drew them more than any fear of danger."

"Aye, somethin' like that. What worries me is what my cousin said. Groups of refugees, usually families that banded together from the same village or town, that followed his convoy disappeared in the night. He saw humans from the city, who hadn't come with his convoy, speakin' to them."

Varel took one of the pastries and bit into it. "Perhaps they found a safe refuge, and went there rather than chancing the dangers of the road."

Fray raised a skeptical brow. "On the road, in the middle of nowhere?"

"Those people probably told the refugees they could guide them somewhere safe - for a reasonable sum," Varel said. "There are always those who prey upon the gullible."

"Or the desperate. But for what purpose? They're refugees, carryin' what little they own, so they aren't even rich enough to rob. I was thinkin' maybe someone's kidnappin' them, but ye already captured the slavers."

The pastries Varel had eaten began to congeal into a cold lump of disquiet in his stomach. Had someone else decided to go slaving? He spread his hands and shook his head. "I don't know, and I don't see... I'm not sure what you expect me to do about it."

"I don't know, either," Fray said, looking unhappy. "But I thought I should pass on this information."

"It is something I should know. Thank you. I'll tell the patrols to be on the lookout for such people." For what little good that would do. Unless someone came forward to accuse these so-called 'guides' of some crime, like fraud, it seemed unlikely they could be detained. The patrols were looking for trouble, but this was not what they were trained for.

Fray set her cup aside. "Well, ye didn't come here just to listen to me gossip. What can I do for you?"

Varel handed the promissory notes to her, to be deposited into the Vigil's accounts. Fray's assistant brought two pouches of coin: the shares of the spoils from the darkspawn ambush for those soldiers who had been present, and, after he had discussed the matter with Fray, what he thought should be a sufficient deposit to pay for passage to the Free Marches. Varel donned his cloak, then shook hands with Fray before he left her warm office.

After collecting his escort and his gear, Varel headed to the chantry, where Petrus and Morller were already waiting for them. They trotted down the steps and met them at the bottom of the stairs. "So, off to the docks?" Petrus said as he pulled the hood of his cloak forward over his head.

"I thought we would go to a tavern first, and get a hot meal before we visit the harbormaster," Varel said as they all walked to the gate that led to the docks. "There are many taverns in the docks district, so we would not have to go out of our way."

Petrus grimaced. "Er, perhaps I should not eat, though I have no objection if you do. There is still a ship to board."

"Did you take the herbal remedy I gave you?"

"I did. One of the brothers was kind enough to prepare some hot water for me. I drank it, hm -" Petrus glanced at the sky "- two hours ago."

"That should have given it enough time to work, though we haven't found a ship yet," Varel felt compelled to point out.

"I am confident we will, though less confident in my ability to keep my food down."

Varel gave him an encouraging smile. "A bit of toasted bread will settle your stomach, ser, and you need to drink something."

Petrus grunted. "I see I will have to rely upon your expertise, Seneschal."

As they passed from the merchants' quarter to the docks, both the clothes and the people who wore them grew rougher, as did the buildings. The streets grew crowded with laborers, porters, boatfolk, and sailors looking for their own meals, but they stayed a respectful distance from Varel's group. Varel led them to the _Laughing Dolphin_ , the same tavern he had visited while investigating the slavers. The scents of roasting meat and frying fish made his stomach clench once they were inside.

Instead of a server, the landlady herself came to take their order. "There's a free table here by the fireplace, though it's a mite small to fit you all," the landlady said, gesturing towards a small table in the corner. "Or would you prefer a private room?"

"This is fine," Varel said, setting his shield and longsword in the corner away from the fireplace. Petrus and the soldiers followed suit.

"Do you mind if I order for all of us? The food here is very good, especially the fish stew," Varel said, once they had all settled themselves around the table. The soldiers shook their heads; Petrus shrugged.

Varel haggled a bit with the landlady, mostly for form's sake, but he thought he acquitted himself well enough. A server soon came with bowls of fish stew, loaves of brown bread still hot from the oven, a dish of salt butter, another of pickled cabbage and carrots, wedges of cheese, and a tall pitcher of ale. Petrus's nostrils flared at the rich scents, but limited himself to a quarter of a loaf after he murmured a quick grace, and put the rest of it in his belt pouch.

The fish stew tasted as good as Varel remembered, full of chunks of fish, leeks, and mushrooms, savory with onions and garlic. They were all hungry, so they finished eating quickly. While Varel left a few coins on the table for the server and paid the landlady, the others gathered up their gear, and soon they were out the door and on their way to the harbormaster. Varel paused at a stall not far away, attracted by the scents of frying meat, and bought a ham pie and a dozen sausage rolls stuffed with cheese, all food that could be easily carried, for he was certain Petrus would be hungry after he got back on dry land. Depending on how long it took to find a ship, the rest of them would be grateful for the rolls.

At the harbormaster's building, which bustled with people taking tallies of cargo and counting out the bann's due of such, Varel found a clerk willing to show him a list of ships in port, along with their berths.

"We're in luck, ser," Varel said to Petrus. "The ship I was hoping to find, the _Hope of the Morning_ is in dock. She delivers cargo to every port in the Free Marches, Cumberland among them." The list showed several other ships he knew, all helmed by reputable captains; if Captain Rehlan had no room, at least there were other options.

"Good. Then let us go and see this ship's accommodations," Petrus said, with the air of a man eager to get an unpleasant task over with.

Varel, being the one most familiar with the city, led them along the line of piers, until he reached the one he wanted. The ship tied up alongside looked just as he remembered: this was no clumsy cog, but a sleek, three-masted version of the Tevinter slaver ship, though built more for capacity than speed. Burly sailors carried poles with cargo suspended in nets up the gangplank from a pile in a cart, and another held a wax tablet and stylus, counting them off.

As Varel and his group approached, a sailor who had been set on guard challenged him. "I am Varel, seneschal of Vigil's Keep." The sailor's face showed no hint of recognition at either of the names, not that Varel was surprised. "I'm looking for Captain Rehlan. I wish to purchase passage to the Free Marches."

The sailor nodded, and sent his fellow guard to fetch the captain, while he stayed to keep an eye on Varel and the others. A brave man, to be unintimidated by five people wearing armor and carrying weapons, while he bore only a bladed tool like those who had worked on the Tevinter ship.

The other sailor-guard returned, bringing with him the captain, both of them moving in and among the porters with ease. Plump and shorter than Varel by a head, dressed in clothes and a fur-lined cloak so bright and colorful they hurt Varel's eyes, Rehlan did not look like an experienced sea captain. Only those observant enough to see below the gaudy surface would notice the worn but well-kept blades at her hips and the muscle hidden beneath the plumpness.

"Varel!" Rehlan's lips stretched wide in a delighted grin, one Varel returned. She threw herself into his arms, and he folded her into his embrace. After a moment she leaned away, tossed her head back and laughed. "It's been years!"

"It has been much too long since I last saw you," Varel said.

Rehlan looked him up and down. "Look at you, in all that shiny armor. You must need to spend hours polishin' it."

Varel chuckled. "That's what squires are for."

"Aye." Rehlan glanced around, dismissing the soldiers as mere guards, and eyed Petrus with speculation. "Look now, we can't stand here and block traffic. My man tells me you're here on business, so come aboard. There's more room on my ship to talk."

The sailor-guard went back to his post, and the big porters paused long enough in their loading to allow Rehlan, Varel, and the others up the gangplank. Varel thought Petrus would balk like a recalcitrant mule, but Petrus followed after a moment, giving the wood a dubious look as it flexed under their footsteps.

Varel paused at the top, just before he set foot on the ship. "Permission to come aboard, Captain?"

Rehlan turned and gave him a grave nod, though her eyes danced with amusement. "Granted."

Sailors hurried back and forth across the deck as they lowered cargo into the hold, so Rehlan led Varel and his group to the upper deck above the forecastle, where they would be out of the way. The motion of the waves were more pronounced this high up; Varel glanced at Petrus, who looked to be keeping his gorge down by sheer force of will, and the soldiers did not seem much better.

"Warden Petrus, a Grey Warden from Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderfels," Varel said. "Ser, this is Captain Rehlan, scourge of both merchants and pirates from here to the Tevinter Imperium. Don't play cards or dice with her, or you will disembark in the Free Marches without your horse, your weapons, and your clothes."

"Captain Rehlan," Petrus said. His face remained grim, but Varel thought he detected a gleam of amusement in his eyes, despite his pallor.

Rehlan grinned like a shark as she shook hands with Petrus, a slash of white against her dark skin. "Now, Varel, if you're gonna be tellin' lies about me, I'll tell 'em lies about you."

Varel sniffed, unimpressed. "There's naught to tell."

Rehlan's grin transmuted into a knowing smirk. "Ain't there?"

"Behave," Varel admonished her, though with no great hope that he would succeed.

She wrinkled her nose at him, still smiling. "Never."

Varel changed the subject, hoping to curb Rehlan's mischief. "You may recall I worked on a merchant ship many years ago, along with my uncle. Rehlan and I served as pages together," he said to Petrus.

"I bet you didn't tell him what scrapes we got into together," Rehlan said. She looked at Varel, then at Petrus. "My man said you want to buy passage. For all of you?"

"No, just Warden Petrus here, his horse, and two others who did not accompany us," Varel said. "They all want to disembark in Cumberland."

"You do know I'm not makin' a straight run for Cumberland?" Rehlan said. "I plan to stop in at every port in the Free Marches and Nevarra, barrin' storms and pirates."

Varel nodded. "I already explained that, yes."

"Well, you're lucky you caught me in time - I've been in dock for a sennight and a half, and most of the cargo's already been loaded. That's the last of it." Rehlan nodded at the sailors still working below. "I was gonna cast off tomorrow or the next day, once we got our livestock back aboard. Where are you stayin'? In the city?"

"No, at Vigil's Keep," Varel said. "One is staying there now, but the other is out on patrol."

"Well, I'll give you two days to get ready." Rehlan shrugged, but made no apology. "I've cargo to deliver, so I can't stay longer."

Varel turned to Petrus. "Is two days enough time, ser?"

"More than enough for me and Fiona, but someone will have to find Hadrian," Petrus said. He seemed steadier now, less pale. "Can you send a courier after him? Can they reach him in time?"

"Captain Rullens will know which patrol he went with, and which route they took. It might be faster to send one of our soldiers here," Varel said as he looked over the three soldiers that comprised their escort. Of the three of them, only Marcas knew the arling best, having been born here; Morller hailed from West Hills, and the other had been recruited from refugees who had arrived from elsewhere.

Rehlan cleared her throat. "Before you make your plans, I remind you that we still need to negotiate a price for passage."

"I would like to see the accommodations for my horse first," Petrus said. "I have a warhorse, well trained, but neither my horse nor I have ever traveled by ship."

Rehlan nodded. "I've taken many passengers over the years, but only one or two have ever brought their own mounts. Usually, if they had one in the first place, they'd sell it here and buy another once they reach their destination."

"So the seneschal told me," Petrus said. "But I would be hard put to find another horse of such quality and training, even had I the funds to purchase a replacement."

Rehlan nodded. "Do you think your horse would be more comfortable up here on the deck, or down below in the hold?"

Petrus looked surprised. "You keep animals on the deck? How do you keep them from falling overboard?"

"Just horses. They don't do well belowdecks and they tend to panic at every little thing. You've the look of an experienced horseman - you know how much damage they can do in their fear, especially in a confined space." Petrus nodded. "We use big slings to keep 'em from fallin', and so that they keep their footin' when the ship rolls. Here, I'll have one of my people show you." Rehlan leaned over the rail and shouted, "Barlon!"

A lanky, dark-skinned sailor with his hair bound up in a bright yellow scarf bounded up out of the hold at the captain's call. "Aye, Captain?"

Rehlan jerked a thumb at Petrus. "This here is Grey Warden Petrus, and he wants to see how we rig horses into slings on deck."

"Aye, Captain." Barlon smiled up at them. "A Grey Warden, eh? Never met one before. This way, messere."

Petrus went down the stairs and followed the sailor to the stern; Varel detailed one of the soldiers to go and join the Grey Warden. He did not really suspect Rehlan nor any of her sailors of any treachery, but Petrus was unused to moving on a ship, and might need someone to steady him.

Rehlan leaned an elbow against the rail, keeping one eye on her sailors and the other on Varel. "You look like you're doin' well for yourself."

"Well enough," Varel said, declining to mention his worries about the darkspawn and the Warden-Commander to her. "How's trade?"

"Down," Rehlan said, making a face. "Ever since all these refugees from your country brought news of the Blight to all the ports. Their reports will have spread far inland by now. Is it true? There really _is_ a Blight?"

" _Was_ a Blight. It's over now. I saw them lowering pieces of the archdemon from the top of Fort Drakon just a few days ago."

Rehlan gaped at him in disbelief. "But... didn't the Blight start just a year ago? I thought it took years to stop one!"

"So did I, but the Grey Wardens did it, just the four of them," Varel said. "If you don't believe me, you can sail to Denerim and take a look for yourself. Why, you could probably see it with a spyglass on a clear day."

"If I didn't have cargo to deliver, I would."

Rehlan might have said more, but Petrus and Barlon returned at that moment. "I am not convinced my horse will be secure in this sling contraption, but Barlon tells me every ship of this type uses something similar," he said. "Is it true you hoist animals aboard using such a thing?"

"It's true," Rehlan said. "It's how we get the larger livestock aboard, and sometimes really big, bulky pieces of cargo, like lumber. I can have my sailors rig a little tent for your horse in bad weather, but it will be up to you to keep it under control. My people will be too busy dealin' with their own tasks during a storm to help you."

Petrus grimaced, but said, "That is fair."

"Shall I make the arrangements, then?" Varel said to Petrus.

"Yes, please," Petrus said.

"Should we start settin' up the sling, then, Captain?" Barlon said.

Rehlan nodded and waved a hand. "Go ahead. Get a few of the others if you need help." Barlon waved and trotted off.

Petrus looked at the captain, then back at Varel. "Shall we all return to the Vigil?"

"I have to go back and fetch some items you will need for the journey, but there is no need for you to do the same."

"I fear Fiona may overlook some correspondence I was working on if she packs my belongings," Petrus said. "We can go to the farm and get our horses ready while you negotiate with Captain Rehlan."

"Very well, ser. It occurs to me we may not even have enough horses for a separate party." Varel handed the bag containing the pie and rolls to Petrus. "Here, you must still be hungry. I'll see you back at the farm; I think you shouldn't have to wait too long."

"Let's go to my cabin," Rehlan said. "It'll be quieter there."

"A moment, please," Varel said, then turned to Marcas. "Hurry back to the farm and pick up your mount, then ride to the Vigil. Ask Captain Rullens which patrol Hadrian went out with, then get a fresh horse and ride after him."

Varel watched Marcas, Petrus, and Morller cross the deck to the gangplank, leaving the last waiting at the rail, then followed Rehlan down the steps and into the aftercastle; he blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the short hallway as the captain led him into her cabin. Inside, a small fortune in tall glass windows stretched across the entire width of the stern, letting in light that seemed blinding compared to the dim hallway.

Like the captain's cabin on the Tevinter ship, the few pieces of furniture were all bolted to the floor, loose items shelved or placed in cabinets, nothing that could fly around in a bad storm. Skins and feathers of animals with striking markings decorated the walls, making the weapon rack and cabinets they framed look prosaic in comparison. Varel took in a deep breath of air redolent with the scents of wood polish, lamp oil, and parchment, and mustered his wits in anticipation of a tough bargaining session.

Rehlan turned and hitched her hip up on her desk. "All right, we've both got work to do, so let's get down to business. Will I have to provide anythin' other than berths for three people and a horse?"

"I will provide dry provisions, as well as fodder for the Grey Warden's horse." Most of that could be provided from the Vigil's stores, and the rest purchased from a shopkeeper Varel had spoken to today.

Rehlan slapped her ample stomach. "As you like, though I'm livin' proof my food is good enough to feed 'em."

Varel considered the usual shipboard diet: hard rounds of unleavened bread, salted meat, cheese, and all the pickled cabbage one could eat - or stomach. Perhaps Fiona and the Grey Wardens would appreciate some variety. "You mentioned you had livestock put to pasture?"

She nodded. "The hens should start layin' soon. Got a couple each of cows, sheep, and goats. Both cows are calvin', so we'll have milk."

"Then I will pay for the same rations of fresh food you serve your crew for the passengers. Will I need to purchase water, as well?"

"No need, you know I always buy extra barrels."

"Good." Varel hesitated, then decided he might as well ask. "Now, do you have any cabins available?"

"I do have one, actually. I s'pose it's large enough to accommodate three people, but only if they're very close friends." Rehlan waggled her eyebrows. " _Very_ close friends. Whether you can afford it or not is another story." She named a price that made Varel blanch.

"My funds do not extend quite that far." Varel sighed. At least the weather would grow warmer as they traveled north. "A sheltered spot on your deck will have to do, and I will provide tents, bedrolls and blankets."

"As you wish. I have enough space on deck." Rehlan shrugged, which made her breasts bounce in a manner Varel tried to ignore, and named a smaller sum.

No matter how splendid Rehlan's bosom was, Varel knew the price was not small enough. This was just the opening move in the haggling game, and he did not allow the abundance of her charm to distract him as they fell to dickering in earnest.

Rehlan scowled at him when they finally settled on the price and shook hands, stopping just short of stomping her foot at being thwarted, though Varel could tell it was a near thing. "I swear to the Maker, the only difference between you and a pirate is that a pirate would never wear all that armor."

"You say that as if you're not practically a pirate yourself."

That made her snicker, as he had intended. "What a hurtful thing to say! Hearsay and slander, Varel, nothing but hearsay and slander! I'm as reputable and upstandin' as the next captain."

Varel gave this statement the fish-eyed look it deserved. "If the next captain sails for the Felicisima Armada, perhaps."

She chortled, then held out her hand. "Anyway, now that we've settled on a price, what say you pay me now."

Varel handed over the purse he had gotten from the bank. Without a hint of shame, she opened it right in front of him and examined the contents. Before she could protest at the amount, he said, "You will receive the rest once my guests are aboard."

Rehlan sniffed as she tucked the purse into her own pouch. "Just so you know, you ain't gettin' this back if they don't arrive here on time. Time and cargo wait for no man."

"Fair enough," Varel said. The Grey Wardens traveled light, as did Fiona herself, even if she was no longer part of the order.

Rehlan stepped close enough to Varel that he caught a hint of her perfume, a scent that reminded him of exotic flowers. "Are you sure you don't have time to... rock my ship?"

Varel chuckled and shook his head at her. "You are incorrigible, Rehlan. Tempting as the offer is, I truly regret that I do not. The others are waiting for me."

She pouted. "What if I said I'd halve the price of their passage?"

Varel could not help but snort. "I would say you're lying."

Rehlan laughed. "You know me too well." 

"Well, I must return to the Vigil - there is much to be done before I can send my guests off into your care."

Her smile grew coy as she slipped off her desk and reached up to run a finger along a groove on his breastplate. "A kiss, for old times' sake?"

Varel hesitated. "I... very well."

"Don't make it sound like you don't want it, too." Rehlan wrinkled her nose at him as she stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Or am I wrong?"

"No," Varel said as he leaned down. "No, you're not wrong," he murmured against her soft lips.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varel returns to Vigil's Keep to prepare for the Grey Wardens' departure, and welcomes new arrivals.

Varel and the sole remaining soldier of his escort walked out of the main gates of the city without any further trouble or harrassment from the guards; he looked around for Constable Aidan, but did not see him. The presence of a Grey Warden in his party may have thrown the guards into confusion, but he thought it would still be wise to make a swift departure. He had hoped to speak to Ker before they left, for the boatfolk might have more information, or heard rumors, about the suspicious 'guides' Fray's cousin had only seen from a distance, but this plan had been thwarted by Captain Rehlan's tight schedule. Perhaps he would get a chance after he saw the Grey Wardens off.

At the farm, Petrus and Morller already had the empty cart hitched and their mounts ready and waiting. As soon as Varel paid the remainder of the fee to farmer, he pulled himself into the saddle and led his little group up the lane to the Pilgrim's Path as fast as the cart could move.

Petrus legged his evil little nag alongside Varel's mount and handed him the last of the sausage rolls. "You and Captain Rehlan seemed quite close."

"We are - well, we were, I suppose," Varel said, and took a bite of his roll, and swallowed it before continuing, "I've known her since we were children, when we served as pages together on the _Hope of the Morning._ She never put on airs, even though her grandfather was the captain, back then. I try to meet her whenever she's in port, but between my duties and the vagaries of the sea and weather, that is much less often than either of us likes."

"An old flame, then?"

Varel laughed. "Oh, I was just one of her many lovers, a long time ago. She has one - or more - in every port. And so she should." He recalled with fondness those few times he had been able to see Rehlan, and they'd had the time and leisure to do more than just talk, and smiled. "I suppose she'll be regaling you with tales of me on your journey. You mustn't believe everything she says. She has a terrible tendency to embellish her stories with wild and fanciful exaggerations."

"I see I will not lack for entertainment." Petrus's scarred face could have been carved from granite, but Varel thought he heard a hint of amusement in his tone. "If I can manage to keep my gorge down, I might even enjoy it."

They made good time on the road, even though they had to ride around the increasing traffic as herders brought animals to market and traders drove carts piled high with goods. Pleased at seeing this sign of the start of spring trade, Varel still felt the absence of Marcas in their escort keenly, but the sight of a patrol from the Vigil reassured him; he exchanged a nod with the patrol leader as they passed each other.

As they turned east towards the Vigil, a flapping motion caught Varel's attention, for someone, probably the housekeeper, had already put up one of the new banners above the main gate. It snapped in the breeze, flashing the silver of the griffon. "Ah. That looks well," he said.

Petrus grunted. "It is unfortunate that it draws attention to the sad state of the walls."

Alas, Varel could not disagree. He suppressed a sigh and said, "I'll be able to do something about them once the stonemason arrives, ser."

"The sooner, the better," Petrus said; Varel could see the worry in his eyes. "As they are now, they are not much stronger than the wooden palisade around Haftend. They will not be able to withstand the darkspawn if they gather here in any numbers."

"Like in the ambush?" At Petrus's nod, Varel's brow furrowed in bafflement. "But what makes you think they would attack the Vigil? There is no place more fortified in the entire arling."

"It does not hurt to prepare for the worst," Petrus said. "It is what we do in the Anderfels. In my experience, the worst usually comes to pass."

A horn call announced them the moment the top of the central tower came into view, high above the trees, and the sentry on duty spotted Varel's party. By the time they rode to the stables and dismounted, Rullens was already waiting for them at the top of the stairs leading to the outer courtyard. Leaving Petrus to tend to his horse, Varel handed the reins of his own mount to a groom, had a brief word with the stablemaster about getting the cart ready for another trip in two days, and strode up to meet the captain.

"Marcas said you managed to book passage on a ship for the Grey Wardens before he rode off," Rullens said as he walked beside Varel into the inner courtyard. "The patrol Hadrian went with should be less than a day's ride away; they're on foot, so I imagine he'll easily catch up with them in an hour or so."

"Did Marcas also mention the ship is leaving dock in two days, whether her newest passengers are aboard or not?"

"Oho! So that's why you're back in such a hurry. I know you wanted to talk to the boatfolk, which is why I'm surprised you returned sooner than expected."

Varel sighed at the reminder. "I would have, if the ship were not leaving so soon. It will have to wait until after I see the Grey Wardens off on their journey."

"Right. You'll be wanting Jacob, then?" Rullens knew Varel had taken Jacob on as something of an apprentice, and the boy did the chores Varel set for him now, though he still ran errands for the soldiers.

"Yes, please. I'm trying to save money by supplying provisions from the Vigil's stores instead of buying from a chandler, so I could use his help in going through the cellars."

A furrow appeared on Rullens's brow, just beneath his helmet. "Surely that would not take long. How much can three people eat?"

"You've never traveled very far by ship, have you?"

"Er, no," Rullens said with a wry smile. "You're giving me that 'you are _such_ a landsman' look. My father took me to Gwaren by ship, once, when I was a boy. That's the furthest I've ever been, and I barely remember it, to tell the truth."

Varel shook his head. "There is a vast difference between a ship that hugs the coastline and one that sails across the open sea, out of sight of land. A coaster can always find a safe harbor or even drop anchor in some sheltered spot if a storm threatens, or go ashore to find food and fresh water if supplies run low."

"Oh." Rullens understood supply and logistics, even if he knew little of ships. "You had better do a good job, then."

Varel directed a dry look at the other man. "Don't I always?"

"Well, yes, but this time, if you don't, Hadrian might try to eat the ship."

Rullens might joke, but Petrus had warned Varel that new Grey Wardens ate enough for three people every meal; Varel made a note to add more food to his mental tally. Captain Rehlan could always use what remained for her own crew, once her passengers had disembarked in the Free Marches.

They parted ways once inside the keep, as Varel went to his quarters to clean off the road dust, and Rullens continued on to his office after promising to send Jacob along. He left off his armor after a quick wash, knowing he would have to go into the narrow cellars to find what he was looking for. After donning his arming doublet over his tunic to keep out the cold, he looked for the housekeeper. After checking the kitchens, a cook directed Varel to Clara's little office, where he found her writing in her records.

Varel tapped on the open door. "Clara, do you have a moment?"

"Oh, ye're back," Clara said. "Does that mean ye found a ship?"

"Yes, I did, which is why I wanted to ask you about what happened to those barrels of provisions we brought back from our raid. Did you use them up?" He had taken careful inventory of all the spoils, but he had lost track of the barrels of food once they had been given over to the housekeeper's care.

"Told t' cooks ta use up t'one that was already opened, but haven't needed ta touch t'others yet. Why?"

"I need them. In order to keep the price of passage down, we have to provide the food."

Clara nodded approval at this frugality. "Shouldn't be hard ta find; t' lads put 'em with t' rest of t' salted meat in t' cellar. Ye know t'one? Should be t' barrels closest ta t' door."

"How are our stocks of food, if I take those barrels?" Varel said. "Do I need to buy more?" Spring may have finally arrived, but the price of fresh food would still be high, and the villages that looked to the Vigil would not bring supplies for another month.

"Still good. We won't starve, though we're all cravin' fresh meat and greens," Clara assured him. "Ye did a good job managin' that, and the harvest was good this year."

"Thank you." Varel himself tired of the diet of dried meat, fruit, and vegetables like everyone else, and the spruce needle tea the herbalist made everyone drink after every meal tasted awful, even if it did keep them healthy. Still, better to go to bed with a full stomach; many of those less fortunate went hungry.

Clara sniffed. "Ye can thank me by gettin' those things I asked ye ta buy. T' castle don't run on food alone."

"I'll get them to you once I've seen the Grey Wardens off," Varel said. "I already bartered some of the spoils for them, and the shopkeepers should have them ready for transport by then." The cart and mule the Crown had lent to Petrus and Fiona were turning out to be quite useful, though he did feel a trifle guilty about not returning them months ago.

Leaving the housekeeper mollified, Varel walked out of the keep, and shivered a little in the cold air as he headed for the entrance to the cellars. Jacob waited for him there, shifting his weight from foot to foot with the impatience of the young, but before Varel could join him, Sandis came out of the salle and spotted him.

The armsmaster paused and scowled at him. "Varel! Why aren't you wearing the rest of your armor?"

"I need to go rummaging through the storerooms, Sandis. If I wore my armor, I could hardly fit in the aisles."

Sandis had to concede the wisdom of that. "Well, put the rest of it on when you're done."

Varel refrained from sighing or rolling his eyes; Sandis would make him pay for the impertinence sooner or later. "Yes, Armsmaster."

As soon as Sandis returned to her own tasks, Varel drafted two of the more muscular grooms from the stables, and together they went down into the cellars. They had just finished stacking all the needed barrels up at the entrance when Varel heard the sentry blow the horn call that warned of an approaching party. No one sounded an alarm, so he thought nothing of it as he had the grooms place the barrels into a wheelbarrow, which they would then laboriously wheel down the stairs to the outer courtyard. Perhaps Marcas had returned with Hadrian, though it seemed too soon.

Having finished the task of gathering provisions, Varel was about to head to the storerooms when a soldier trotted up to him. "Captain Rullens says he'd like you at the gates, ser. Wants you to meet the party with him."

"Oh? What's so special about it?"

"It's all dwarves, ser. And they're not wearin' a livery he knows."

"Very well. Tell him I will be there in a moment." Curiosity piqued, Varel hurried over to the door to the storerooms, Jacob following along on his heels, and unlocked it. "Go ahead and start looking for tents and blankets, and set them aside for me," he said to the boy. "Remember to note down what you take out on the wax tablet I gave you."

"Yes, ser."

Wishing he looked more presentable, Varel joined the captain at the top of the stairs, where they had an excellent view of the small caravan making their way up the slope to the Vigil. As the soldier had said, the party consisted only of dwarves, and made an odd sight. Most of them wore layers of sensible wool and furs, riding in carts pulled by mules, but a dozen in armor rode short, shaggy ponies with surprising skill, and in good order. He did not recognize the device on their tabards, but perhaps an explanation would be forthcoming, for two of the dwarves sitting in the lead cart hopped down and approached.

"I'm Voldrik Glavonak, a stonemason from Orzammar," the dark-haired dwarf said. He gestured to the swarthy, light-haired dwarf beside him with one hand, and held out a waxed leather tube in the other. "This here is my brother, Dworkin. King Bhelen sent us at the Warden-Commander's request."

"Welcome to Vigil's Keep, Master Voldrik, Master Dworkin," Varel said, shaking hands with them before opening the tube. "I am Varel, the seneschal, and this is Captain Rullens. I must tell you we have a desperate need for a competent stonemason."

"I can tell," Voldrik said as he looked around, brows lowered.

Varel opened the waxed leather tube and took out two pieces of parchment, both weighed down with ornate seals. One was a letter of safe conduct from the Crown, stamped with the familiar two mabari on a shield; the Crown did not hand those out lightly or often. The other bore a wax medallion embossed with a stylized dwarven face, introducing the two brothers and attesting to their skill.

"Everything appears to be in order. Will your escort also be staying here?" Varel nodded to the armored dwarves, who had not yet dismounted, as he put the parchment back into the tube.

"Oh, no," Voldrik said, shaking his head. "They're mercenaries King Bhelen hired to escort us. They'll be returning to Orzammar now that they've delivered us safely."

"To the town _above_ Orzammar," one of the armored dwarves said. "Surfacer dwarves aren't allowed to return to Orzammar itself." He glanced at Voldrik. "As we all are, now."

"This is Kynewulf," Voldrik said, and jerked a thumb at the others. "He's in command of these soldiers."

"Would you and your troops like a hot meal before you return?" Rullens said. He eyed the angle of the sun. "I also suggest staying overnight with us. It gets dark quick, this time of year."

A grin flashed in the depths of Kynewulf's beard as he dismounted, the other soldiers following suit. "Now that'd be welcome."

"I'll go and tell the cooks, then," Rullens said. He raised a brow at Varel, asking without words if Varel could handle their new guests without his help; Varel nodded, and jerked his chin at the dwarven soldiers.

"Come inside, then," Varel said, leaving the dwarven soldiers in the captain's care. "There is no need for us to discuss business in the cold. The stablemaster will take your mounts and the mules."

"It's blasted cold up here on the surface," Dworkin said as he wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. "I'd never been cold a day in my life, in Orzammar. Even the casteless dusters don't have to worry about that, though they have to worry about everything else."

Before Varel could ask Dworkin if it was true the fabled city of Orzammar used actual lava flows for heat, Voldrik interrupted him. Voldrik had been looking around with an expression of disdain, what could be seen of it under his beard. "You call this proper stonework? It looks more like it's held together with spit and hope." He stared and pointed. "What's that grassy stuff you've got on those roofs?"

"That is a thatched roof, made from straw," Varel said. "It is cheap because the supplies are usually plentiful, it is light, and it sheds rain quite admirably."

Voldrik slapped his forehead. "Oh, right, I can't believe I forgot you have water that falls out of the sky up here. What's 'straw'?"

Varel explained that, too, and what could be seen of Voldrik's face above the luxuriant beard twisted into a disapproving scowl. "Sounds like it'd burn a treat, and you'd still use that? For a castle?"

"It doesn't burn so fast that we haven't time to extinguish it."

"The darkspawn set fire to anything they can't ruin or despoil," Voldrik said, with the air of one who knew from experience. "You want good, solid stone between you and them. Failing that, at least use slate tiles. I know you've got those; I've seen them on some buildings in towns."

"Good quality stone may be abundant in Orzammar, ser, but not up here," Varel said. "Slate tiles cost much more than thatch."

"Then you had better ask yourself if your life is worth using cheaper, _flammable_ materials." Voldrik walked over and poked at one of the boards that covered a gap in the wall. "What? And you're using it for the walls, too? What is this stuff?"

"That is wood, ser," Varel said, trying not to wince. Without the means to pay for proper repairs or even for the material, Varel had been forced to have the keep's carpenter nail wooden planks in place of stone, and the man had scowled and complained ferociously all the while.

Voldrik straightened up from his inspection. "Why hasn't this place burned to the ground yet?"

Dworkin shook his head at the weathered planks. "I hate to say it, but my brother's right."

" _Wood_ ," Voldrik said, saying the word like a curse, "might be good enough to hold off the odd bandit, but this stuff will never hold against darkspawn."

Varel sighed. "I know. We used to have a good stout wall, all made of stone, but Arl Howe neglected the defenses for years."

"Who?" Voldrik demanded. In the next breath he said, "Never mind. Whoever he was, he was an idiot."

"I cannot disagree, ser," Varel said.

Dworkin rolled his eyes. "Sorry, he's always like this. It's nothing personal. King Bhelen recommended us to the Grey Wardens on account of his skill, not his sparkling personality."

"Specifically, to the new Warden-Commander of Ferelden." Voldrik shook his head at the fortress as they passed under the outer wall's portcullis. "And a good thing, too. You need me," he said, with no hint of arrogance.

" _Are_ you from Orzammar?" Varel said, eyeing the two brothers with curiosity.

"We were." Voldrik's brow furrowed in an expression that could have been anguish or anger. "Now we're... well, I guess we're casteless surfacer dwarves now."

Varel knew a little about dwarven politics, enough to realize that it was no trivial thing for a dwarf with a secure place in the underground kingdom to come to the surface. "You were willing to give up caste and kin to come here at your king's command?" That meant they were exiled forever, for all intents and purposes.

"Just caste, not kin. We've still got family back home," Dworkin said. "I wouldn't mind giving up some of 'em, to be honest."

While Dworkin might be trying to make the best of his new home, Voldrik did not look as reconciled. "We didn't have much choice."

"I don't really care," Dworkin said with a shrug. "The sky was scary at first, and the stuff that falls down out of it! But there are lots of opportunities up here on the surface for a smart dwarf. I'll miss having a close source of lyrium sand, though."

Voldrik scowled at his brother. "Your experiments are probably why we were on King Bhelen's short list - and not because of our heights."

Dworkin scoffed. "What, you mean all that gold he gave our House had nothing to do with it? Admit it, you've been itching for more work than Orzammar could provide."

"There is no lack of work for a skilled stonemason here, that's true enough," Varel said. "And once you are done here, there are any number of castles and fortresses to the south that need to be repaired, if not rebuilt, due to the Blight."

Voldrik seemed much cheered by that. "Well, maybe the surface isn't all bad. All the stonework in Orzammar is set in, er, stone. All we stonemasons really have to do is keep it in repair. If I'm lucky, I get a commission to do some work on someone's palace in the Diamond Quarter. Not much opportunity for me to do some _real_ work."

"And these are?" Varel indicated the younger dwarves - at least, he thought they were younger, since their beards did not seem as full - carrying crates into the courtyard from the carts with exaggerated care. He noted that all of them had eyebrows in various stages of growing back, and most had healing singe marks on their faces and bare hands. Several other dwarves, without such scars, carrying what Varel presumed were stone-working tools, watched them with wariness and from a good distance.

"My apprentices," Dworkin said. "I'll need a workshop. A place with stout walls and a thin roof."

Voldrik snorted. "Until they blow themselves up. Or my brother does. Then I call 'em 'little bitsies'."

Dworkin shushed his brother. "Don't say that! At least, not where they can hear you." He glanced back over at the laboring dwarves and sucked in a breath. "Temmerin, you be careful with those!" he shouted to a dwarf laboring to carry several crates up the stairs. "I'd better get him straightened out. Excuse me."

Varel stopped and blinked in surprise as Dworkin rushed off. Voldrik coughed. "Ah, now might be a good time to tell you that my brother isn't a stonemason."

The letter King Bhelen had written praised the dwarven brothers' skills, but Varel realized that he had not mentioned just _what_ Dworkin had been skilled in. "Oh?" he said as he led Voldrik into the keep.

"You may have heard we use explosives in our mining?"

Varel nodded. Dwarves had brought their expertise and knowledge in crafting such things to the surface long ago, and both clever dwarves and clever humans had developed them into weapons in the years since.

Voldrik went on. "Well, someone has to design and make them in the first place. My brother is one of the best. He had been developing them for the soldiers to use against the darkspawn." He seemed reluctant to go on.

As Varel opened the door to his office and ushered Voldrik into it, he considered the dangers of such devices, the narrow minds of some soldiers, and Dworkin's presence on the surface, despite his usefulness in an underground city that had survived constant darkspawn attacks for so long. He put two and two together, and hazarded a guess. "The wrong person got hurt by his explosives?"

"It wasn't my brother's fault," Voldrik said fiercely as he sat in a chair, his legs dangling from the human-high seat. Varel made a mental note to have lower chairs made. "It wasn't! No one blames the weaponsmith if someone's fool enough to hurt themselves on their own sword. He's a bit mad, but not stupid, and he gave clear and strict instructions on how to use his explosives. Then some glory-hungry Warrior Caste idiot with lichen for brains gets singed using them improperly... He's lucky he didn't lose a hand."

"A Warrior Caste idiot with connections?" Varel felt some sympathy; it appeared dwarves had vindictive nobles, too.

Voldrik grunted, what could be seen of his face set in a sour expression. His silence was answer enough.

"Well, unless that Warrior Caste idiot compounds his idiocy with stupidity in pursuing your brother to the surface, let us leave that in the past, where it belongs," Varel said as he poured tea from a waiting pot into two mugs, offering one to Voldrik. "Would you like to see your quarters first and refresh yourself, or the hot meal the captain promised?"

"We ate at an inn," Voldrik said after a sip of the hot brew. "I'd like to stay close with my brother and the others, though. If there's a choice." He mustered some humor. "We won't need high ceilings."

Varel examined that bearded face, and thought Voldrik hid his nervousness quite well. Alone on the surface but for Dworkin and their apprentices, under an alien sky and not the comforting stone ceiling he must have lived under all his life, far from the protection of his house, Voldrik now found himself in the care of complete strangers - and humans, at that.

"Of course," Varel said. "I take it you would prefer to live where you work?"

Voldrik nodded. "For now, anyway. Someday I'd like my own place and workshop."

"Most crafters do, if they do not inherit the family facilities along with their occupation," Varel said. If Voldrik had the same skill in finances as he did with stone, he would be a rich dwarf in short order. He braced himself for the next inevitable discussion. "Now, as to the matter of pay..."

"King Bhelen already paid my commission," Voldrik said, his beard moving a little in a smile when Varel could not quite hide his relief. "You just have to provide room and board - and the materials we'll need for a proper wall. You had better have good granite up here. I suppose I can work with trash, but it won't do the integrity of your walls any good."

The fact that he did not have to part with any of the coin he had painstakingly scraped together eased at least one burden from Varel's shoulders. "Not that I'm not grateful, but why would the king of another kingdom pay for the repairs to the walls of a fortress that is not even under his rule?"

Voldrik looked surprised. "Didn't you know? King Bhelen literally owes his crown to the Warden-Commander. Paying for repairs to the walls is the least he could do."

"That is not what she is most famous for, up here on the surface. But that sounds like a fascinating tale, and a long one," Varel said, intrigued. "But it can wait until after you have refreshed yourself, settled in, eaten, and seen to your crafters. I also have tasks of my own that your arrival interrupted."

"That sounds reasonable," Voldrik said, putting down the empty mug and hopped down from the chair. "I've never traveled so far in my life."

"We have two Grey Wardens here that I will be escorting to the City of Amaranthine in two days," Varel said. "I was preparing for their journey when you arrived. Once I get back, we will have the leisure to discuss repairs to the fortifications, and I can also bring back a letter that will allow you to access the funds in our accounts."

Voldrik frowned. "Grey Wardens? But I heard King Alistair and the Warden-Commander were the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden."

"They are not from Ferelden," Varel said, deciding not to embellish his explanation. It would take too long and he still had things to do. "Sadly, they are not staying, either, hence the preparations."

"Do you think I could meet them? I've never met a Grey Warden before, only seen them from a distance."

"You will likely meet them at the evening meal, which will be served soon. I can introduce you," Varel said, recognizing hero worship when he saw it. He really must learn just what all the Warden-Commander had done in Orzammar. Voldrik did not seem the sort to be easily impressed, except possibly by good craftsmanship. "Now, let me show you to your quarters."

The Vigil had plenty of space to spare at the moment, with most of her noble occupants dead or unaccounted for, so Varel found a place that suited Voldrik well enough. The long, low room had once been the barracks-like quarters for young pages sent by noble families to take service with the arl; the dwarves would find the smaller-sized furniture more comfortable than those meant for human adults. Their current commoner pages did not use it, for they simply returned home to their families when they went off duty.

They went back outside, where Varel found the afternoon waning, and left Voldrik organizing their baggage with the other dwarves. Jacob, left to his own devices, watched the dwarves with wide-eyed fascination, but hopped to his feet at once when he saw Varel approaching.

"Well, Jacob, what do you have for me?"

Jacob had been busy, considering no one had been supervising him. Varel took the boy's wax tablet and inspected the blankets, the furs, and the tents, finding all of them clean and in good condition. Three bedrolls, little more than sewn canvas rectangles that the boy, on his own initiative, had already stuffed with fresh straw, lay bundled nearby.

"You've done well, Jacob," Varel told the boy, who beamed. "Now put all these in the sacks I gave you, and take them out to the stables. The stablemaster will store them somewhere under cover. Once you finish with that, you can go to your lessons." The boy lost his smile at that, but did as he was told.

Varel relocked the door to the storerooms, then spotted Rullens in the outer courtyard, deep in discussion with the stablemaster, but he looked up when Varel approached. "Kynewulf and his troops are settling into one of the empty barracks. I was just making sure we had enough fodder for their ponies."

"And do we?" Varel said to the stablemaster.

The stablemaster nodded. "Aye, we've plenty of hay and grain, since we lost t' horses t'arl took ta Denerim, and never got no replacements." He jerked his head at the carts, which had been pulled to a corner of the field. Now that they were empty, Varel saw someone had burned the same symbol Kynewulf wore on his tabard onto the wooden planks. "What 'bout t' mules and carts?"

"Those are Kynewulf's property, or rather, the property of his mercenary band," Rullens said. "They'll take them away with them when they leave."

"How long are they staying?" Varel said.

"Just for the night - Kynewulf said they'll leave at dawn tomorrow," Rullens said. "They have a job waiting for them, apparently."

The stablemaster looked relieved, and nodded. "I'd best get back ta work, then. Got ta make sure t' mules be ready fer tamorrow." He turned to Varel. "And t' cart for you, Seneschal, day after next. Jacob already brought t' sacks by; I put 'em in t' tack room."

"And the barrels?" Varel said. The barrels needed to be kept dry, else their contents might rot.

The stablekeeper was already turning away. "Already stacked up inna clean, empty stall."

"So what do you make of those mercenaries?" Varel said as the stablekeeper trotted off. He always worried when armed foreign troops entered the fortress; it reminded him too much of the rebellion.

"They're a disciplined bunch, for mercenaries. We won't have any trouble with them," Rullens said with some admiration. "If the warriors in Orzammar are anything like these soldiers, it's easy to see why the Divines never launched an Exalted March on the dwarves, for all they grumble about the cost of lyrium."

"Not even the Tevinter Empire was foolish enough to do _that_ ," Varel said. "And _they_ tried to conquer everything."

"I almost wish they'd stay on. We could use them."

Varel shook his head. "We could never afford them. And it would look strange. Soon enough, the more histrionic nobles would insinuate she is gathering an army of foreign mercenaries to conquer her vassals, or overthrow the Crown, or some other daft thing."

Rullens gave up the notion with visible reluctance. "Mm, I suppose. I'm beginning to realize everything we do will reflect on the Warden-Commander."

"We forget that at our peril. Oh, there is another matter about something closer to home I wanted to discuss with you, but we should not talk about it out here."

Looking wary, Rullens said, "Right. Your office, or mine?"

"Mine. I still have half a pot of hot tea. No sense in letting it go to waste."

Ensconced in the warmth of his office again, Varel handed a mug of tea to the captain and told him what Fray had relayed about the dubious 'guides.' Rullens frowned as he listened, the expression seeming to etch deeper into his face with every word.

"I don't see what I can do about it," Rullens said, not realizing he was echoing Varel's own words to Fray. "We can't be responsible for every gullible refugee who comes here looking for safety or passage."

"I know, but it is something Fray thought I should know, and now you are aware, as well." Varel began to chew on one of his fingernails before he realized what he was doing and took his hand out of his mouth. He needed to put his armor - and more importantly, his gauntlets - back on. "Is someone taking up slaving? Recruiting for some unsavory purpose? No one would notice if a few refugees disappeared - or care."

"Those are some hard questions," Rullens said as he put down the mug with a little too much force. "Questions we need to find answers for, if only because we don't want a festering mess on our doorstep for the Warden-Commander to stumble over. That won't do any good for our credibility or competence." He sighed. "I just don't see how, when our troops are spread so thin."

"I can't help but feel there is some sinister purpose behind these so-called 'guides'," Varel said. "Fleecing desperate newcomers is nothing new, but few would bother targeting entire families, and poor ones, at that."

"I agree. I'll see what I can do," Rullens said, getting to his feet. "I'll talk to the patrol leaders, but no promises."

"That is all anyone can ask for."

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a line in Chapter 2 of _In the Heart of Darkness_ , by David Drake and Eric Flint, which makes little sense out of context, but I think the meaning of which is clear: "Raghunath Rao once said the day would come when Rana Sanga would choose between Rajputana's honor and Rajputana's duty. And that, when that day came, the truest of Rajputs would understand that only honor gives duty meaning."
> 
> This work is intended as a framing story for my Varel/F!Cousland fills (the Lonely Hearts series), written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme some years ago.


End file.
